


Secret Santa

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Secret Santa, conniving Pansy, insensitive Ron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 48,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17673332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: Ron has a big mouth, but Draco is in the right place at the right time. Harry just wants a place to call his own. Well and someone to share it with. Maybe Draco can help.





	1. Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: this is a repost of my fic that was written in 2008 for slythindor100's 31 prompts for December. I decided on day 2 to start a series, so there are 30 chapters.

“Here you go, Harry.Maybe Santa can bring you that.”

Draco stiffened.He had found his way into the ratty shop and was looking at a rack of sale priced older DVD’s when the familiar voice broke through his sullen reverie.The idea of being in a Muggle film store, alone, looking for a way to spend his Saturday evening, alone, was more than just a little disheartening.He peered around the edge of the rack that was shielding him, caught a glimpse of brilliant red hair and a mop of unruly midnight black, and was suddenly grateful for the grey skull cap that covered most of his distinctive blond.He pulled back so as not to be seen by the weasel, who was facing him, but paused when he saw Potter holding the small box that Weasley had clearly pitched at him, staring at the title. He was fascinated by the sight of the rust colored stain spreading on Potter’s neck above the collar of his truly hideous cranberry colored jumper.

“Oh, you’re bloody hilarious, you are,” Potter said darkly, dropping the light blue box on top of a nearby stack.Weasley grinned unrepentantly.

“Well, you know it’s what you really want.And in light of your recent announcement, I just thought…”

“Do not make me hex you,” Potter said through clenched teeth, shoulders stiff.Arrestingly square shoulders, Draco thought, studying the musculature beneath the wool.Broad, muscular square shoulders.He blinked.

“You were more fun before you…” Weasley began, a wicked sparkle in his blue eyes.Potter turned his head then, and the tight jaw and narrowed eyes made Draco’s pulse jump.But then, that look, on that face, always had gotten his juices going.

“You’re done.” Potter turned then and stalked towards the door of the shop, and Draco’s eyes dropped involuntarily to the shifting muscles of the taut arse hugged by worn denim.The world class, taut arse.

“Come on, Harry,” Weasley called, following him.“It was a joke!”

They went out onto the damp London street, the bell over the door ringing in their wake.

Unable to overcome his curiosity, Draco waited until he was quite certain that they weren’t returning, then made his way over to the mark-down table where Potter and Weasley had been standing, and retrieved the light blue DVD box from the top of a pile.When he read the title, his fair brows shot nearly to his hairline.

‘A Boyfriend for Christmas’, the title announced.Draco blinked quickly, feeling his heart jump into his throat.Wait, what was it that Weasley had said?

“You know it’s what you really want, and in light of your recent announcement…”

Slowly, a smile spread over Draco’s handsome features, and weighing the case in his hand, he looked towards the door.

Well, well, well, he thought.Maybe he’d just try to see if he could help Santa out.


	2. Candles Burning Bright

Harry sat at Ron and Hermione’s dining room table, a wine glass near his elbow with the dregs of his fourth red in the bottom and baby Rose snoozing comfortably in the crook of his arm.A little bubble formed in front of her pink, bow shaped lips, and Harry watched the expressions that played over her face with fond fascination.She was three months old, he was her doting godfather, and the small body felt warm and surprisingly solid in his arms.

He could hear the furious whispers in the kitchen, and Harry knew that Ron’s wife was giving him what for.Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to sympathize with his friends plight.He knew that Ron had been teasing at the video store, but his barbs had stung, and Harry had been unable to shake off his anger and embarrassment.When they’d arrived back at the house, able to read Harry unlike any other person alive, Hermione had asked him what was wrong. Ron had burst in, brightly relating what he thought was his clever taunting of his best friend.It wasn’t until he’d seen the horrified anger on his wife’s face that he figured out he’d crossed a line.

On the whole, Ron and Hermione had been completely supportive of Harry when he’d ended his relationship with Ginny.Harry had tried to make the relationship work, he really had, but something had shifted irrevocably inside of him at a defining moment near the end of the war, and nothing had been the same afterwards.

He could name the exact moment; he could still taste the fear, feel the heat on his skin.His eyes drifted from the baby’s peaceful face to the center of the table, where three small candles floated in a crystal bowl, the flames burning brightly.He stared at those tiny flames, the vision in his mind taking precedence over his sight. 

He remembered the voracious roar of the consuming blaze, the way the fingers of flame had seemed to reach up to grab at his robes as he flew through it.He remembered the moment of horror when he’d looked down, seen the fear on two upturned faces, and known a steely resolve that he could outfly the fire.Instinctively, he’d gone into a nose dive unlike anything he’d performed on the pitch, reached out with his hand…

He remembered every second, as if it were a film that had been slowed in his mind’s eye.The pale skin, washed gold in the light of the rabid fire.The wide grey eyes, filled with both horror and the knowledge that at any moment, they could both die.The single bead of sweat that slipped down a sooty temple, lit like a drop of crystal, clinging just above an arched brow.And then there was the hand, palm slick, fingers scrabbling around Harry’s wrist to hold on as tightly as he could.Harry had yanked him onto the broom behind him, and felt the face that had pressed between his shoulder blades, the arms that had clutched his waist so tightly it had hurt…

“Well, then use your head, Ronald!You cannot just… blurt things out like that in public.It’s insensitive.”

Harry was jerked from his reverie when little Rose started a bit, frowning at the sound of her mother’s raised voice coming from the kitchen, and he instinctively soothed the baby with a slight rocking motion.She settled immediately, brow clearing, but Harry’s memory faded.

Harry sighed and picked up his glass to drain it.Yes, he knew that exact moment that everything had changed.Ron and Hermione hadn’t seemed terribly surprised when Harry had ended it with Ginny, then told them six months later that he didn’t believe it was Ginny in particular, but women in general that didn’t do it for him.They’d been supportive and for the most part, understanding.

As he set his glass on the table with a slight sigh, he doubted they’d be quite as understanding if they knew just who had precipitated the change to begin with.


	3. The Stockings Were Hung by the Chimney with Care

Draco had arrived back at his flat from the video store, his mind still reeling with the information he’d gleaned over the mark-down table. 

Potter was gay, something inside of him sang gleefully.Harry Potter, savior of all things wizard, Golden Boy, defeater of Dark Monsters, was gay.At one time, Draco would have been the first in line to take the piss out of ‘The Chosen One’ with that information, simply because the whole ‘coming out’ thing was just too good to miss.For Draco’s part, he’d never really been ‘in’, so it hadn’t been a factor. But now, for some reason, he didn’t want to tease Potter.He wanted…. well, he wanted.But then, if he was going to be honest with himself, which he was on occasion, he’d ‘wanted’ for a very long time; ever since that night in the Room of Hidden Things, on the back of that broom…

As it always did, the memory of their race through the fire made a chill sweep over the surface of his skin, and Draco burrowed deeper into his couch, slipping his hands into the opposite sleeves of his heavy flannel pyjamma’s.These were special, these night clothes.They were a fiercely guarded secret between himself and his mother, and no one had ever seen them outside of the two of them.Every year on Christmas, his mother gifted him with the heavy, warm one piece flannel jammies, and every year, it was his favorite gift.He loved the feel of them, and he did get so cold in the winter.Of course, no lover ever saw them; they weren’t exactly sexy.And of course, when they arrived, they were always hunter green.Draco’s mother didn’t need to know that he had, for several years, been spelling them bright red.He told himself that it was because red was far more flattering to his fair skin and hair, that it made him look healthier, but given that no one ever saw them it was a weak argument even to his own mind.Actually, he thought it had something to do with this horrible red jumper he’d seen once stretched taut over broad shoulders, and how the black hair that had touched its collar had seemed thick and dark as ink.

Draco sighed, staring into the fire, wondering how to begin his ‘master plan’.He wasn’t sure he even had a real plan, other than to get Potter’s attention somehow that didn’t involve the business end of a wand.But how to do that in a way that wouldn’t seem suspicious?That was the conundrum.He’d spent so much time over the years baiting the man, it wasn’t like he could just walk up to him now and say, “gee, understand you want a boyfriend.I’m available, actually.”Yeah, like that would work.

As he stared at the dancing flames, something above them caught his eye, and he frowned.What was that doing there, he wondered in exasperation.He hadn’t given his house-elf permission to decorate for the holidays yet, and yet hanging from his mantle was a single red and white stocking.It had been a gift from an old lover… Michael…no, wait, Mitchell.Micheal.He shrugged.It didn’t matter.He hadn’t lasted long.Just long enough to suggest the river rock fireplace and the blond hardwood floors in order to make the room ‘more masculine’, Draco recalled, and his frown deepened.He hated that damned fireplace.Throwing back the chenille blanket he’d tucked around his bare feet, he was off of the couch and striding across the room when a flat box on the hearth caught his eye.There, nestled in white tissue paper, was the other stocking.They’d never got around to having their names embroidered on them, which Draco supposed was a good thing, considering.He pulled the stocking off of the hook above the fire, determined to return it to the box, when he paused with it in his hand.

Staring down at it, he was struck with a sudden flash of inspiration.Of course, he’d have to make a few adjustments, he mused as he reached into his sleeve for his wand, but he began to smile as he thought this just might be the beginning of a brilliant plan…

Harry was seated at his breakfast table the next morning when a pecking at the window over his flat’s sink startled him into looking up from his newspaper.There was a plain brown barn owl at the window, pecking madly at the glass.Harry frowned as he stood and made his way across the room.That wasn’t a Ministry bird; they were all great horned owls now.And it wasn’t Ron and Hermione’s…

He opened the window and stared at the square box that was attached to the birds leg.Shrugging, he removed it, fed the animal a treat and sent it on its way.Making his way back to the table, he saw his name across the face of the white box in elegant script.

Hermione would have a fit that he hadn’t checked the box for booby traps, but Harry shook it and it seemed harmless enough.He set it on the table and opened it, setting the lid aside and parting the tissue paper underneath.Folded neatly in the box was a Christmas stocking, white velvet with a red cuff and red snowflakes intricately embroidered down the length.Across the cuff, ‘Harry’ was embroidered in heavy silk thread, accented with small pearls.He smiled slightly as he lifted it from the box, studying the fine workmanship.When he saw that the box contained a second sock, but that it had no name on it, he lifted it out as well.

Underneath, in the bottom of the box, was a small square card, lines of the same elegant script across the face.He set the socks aside and lifted it, and felt something catch in his chest.

“Everyone needs someone to share Christmas with,” it read.“May all of your wishes come true.”

He stared at it for a very long time.  
  



	4. A Home for the Holidays

The restaurant was designed to look like some sort of Tyrolian hunting lodge crossed with a Swiss chalet, and the menu was just as incomprehensible.  Had it not been for the fact that Harry was long time friends with Rosmerta, and that this fanciful picturesque restaurant was her little sister’s foray into business in Hogsmeade, Harry never would have found himself there on a Friday night. Plus, Hermione guilted him into it by insisting he needed to go with her and Ron on their first ‘date night’ after the baby.  So, there he sat, when he would much rather have been at home eating fish and chips or take out curry than trying to decide between something called Pastetli, which the menu said was a meat pie, and something else called Grune Erbsensuppe mit Grumbeerenworshte, which was mind-bogglingly described as  Green Pea Soup with Potato Sausage.  He settled on Gemischter Salat mit Magengrot (mixed salad with three different dressings and pieces of sweat bread) and a glass of red wine.

“Why ya eating rabbit food, Harry?” Ron teased as he eyed Harry’s salad before digging into his plate of bratwurst and German potato salad.  He’d also ordered beer, which sat in a huge stein next to his plate. “What, watching yer waistline?”

“Something you might consider,” Hermione retorted, eyeing the way his jumper was stretched across his slightly rounded tummy.

“Hey,” Ron protested, ears turning pink.  “It’s baby weight.”

“Interesting, considering I had the baby,” Hermione drawled, and Harry chuckled.  She turned to him then, sipping her white wine and eyeing him in speculation.  “So, when did you come to this decision, anyway?” she asked, one arched brow lifted.

Harry shrugged as he speared some of his salad.  “Oh, it’s something I’ve been considering for a while, actually.  I’d like to have a place of my own; you know, stop leasing.”

“You own a house,” Hermione reminded him, but he scowled and shook his head.

“I won’t live in Grimmauld, Hermione.  Ever.”

“Then you should sell it,” she said reasonably.  “Why keep it?”

“Actually, I don’t own it anymore.” Harry took a drink of his wine and then carefully set his glass on the table once again.  “I’ve deeded it to Teddy,” he answered softly.

Both Ron and Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed.  “You deeded a house to a seven-year-old?”  Ron asked, his fork paused half way to his mouth. “Why?  


“He’s got more right to it than I do,” Harry answered.  “His grandmother is a Black.  Someday, he can live there.  If he doesn’t want it, he can sell it.”

They both stared at him until he began to feel uncomfortable, and shifted in his chair.  “Can we change the subject, please?”

“Oh, certainly,” Hermione said quickly, blinking.  “So, where do you think you want to buy, then?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered thoughtfully.  “Somewhere in the country, I think.  With some land.”  He smiled faintly.  “And several bedrooms.  I’ve got all of these godchildren, you see.  I’d like for them to have their own rooms when they come to visit their old Uncle Harry.”  He continued to smile faintly as he speared up more greens.  “And a fireplace,” he said thoughtfully, his green eyes mellow.  “I’ve missed having a fireplace.”  ‘And I need someplace to hang my stockings,’ he finished in his head, feeling warm inside at the thought of those two velvet stockings, still nestled in white tissue paper.

“How soon do you want to do this?” Hermione pressed.  Harry shrugged.

“The sooner the better,” he answered, taking another sip of his wine.  “I’d love to be in somewhere by Christmas, but I doubt it’s possible. ”

Hermione looked thoughtful.  “What you need is a real estate agent,” she said firmly.  “Someone who can find just what you’re looking for.”

Harry looked at her across the table.  “A wizard realtor,” he said thoughtfully.  “I suppose there are such things.”

“Of course there are,” Hermione announced.  “We had a realtor when we bought our place.  I’ll give you her name.”

 *******

Pansy Parkinson-Hunter sat on the other side of the partition from the ‘golden trio’, shamelessly eavesdropping.  She’d nearly asked to be moved to another table to wait for her husband when she’d first heard their voices, but then they’d begun to discuss real-estate, and her interest had been engaged.  Listening intently, she heard Granger mention a realtor, and a slow smile spread across her full, red painted lips.  Quickly she dug into her handbag, pulling out a business card on thick ivory vellum.  She took a pen from her bag and scribbled something on the back of the card, then gestured the waiter over to her table. 

“Yes, madam?”

“Could you please deliver this,” she held up the card, “along with a bottle of whatever he’s drinking to the gentleman just on the other side of this partition?”

He looked at the card, then back up into her face.  “That would be for Mr. Potter?” he asked softly, one brow arched knowingly. 

“The one and only,” she answered.  He gave an abbreviated bow, and walked away.

Immediately, Pansy pulled her mobile from her bag, and after punching in her best friend’s number, quickly picked her way through a text message.   “You will absolutely never--” she typed quickly on her blackberry, “--believe what I just overheard at the opening of this hideous restaurant…”

******

…In London, the mobile that Pansy had insisted Draco carry buzzed against the wood of the coffee table, and he marked his place in his book before picking it up to read her message….


	5. Deck the Halls

Potter was buying a house.

 Draco held the mobile in his hand, staring thoughtfully at the dark windows across the dimly lit room.

 Potter was buying a house.  That was what Pansy had sent a text to tell him.  She was sitting in some new restaurant in Hogsmeade, waiting for her husband Ryan, and she over heard Potter, Granger and the Weasel talking about it.  He wanted ‘someplace in the country, with lots of room’, and Pansy was all but salivating.  She’d even sent him a business card with a bottle of wine.  Draco shook his head, a slight smile forming.  You had to give old Pans credit, he mused.  She had a more functional set of balls than many of the men he knew.  Who else but Pansy would be so single-minded in her determination to get  _that_ commission that she’d send a friendly note and bottle of merlot into the heart of enemy territory?

 When Pansy had first become an estate agent, Draco thought she’d lost her mind.  After all, the Parkinson’s survived the war with most of their fortune in tact; she didn’t have to work.  But through sheer determination, and an incredible lack of anything resembling caution, she’d become  _the_ person to call for the witch or wizard who was keen on moving up, or down.  She knew about every divorce that put a house on the market, every murder that made a fabulous flat available, every old duffer that off’d it, leaving an estate behind.  And she was absolutely ferocious in representation of her clients.  He didn’t think she’d lost a bidding war on a property, ever.  Potter could do worse than Pansy, but, Draco thought proudly, he doubted he could do better. Draco set the mobile back on the table, brow still furrowed thoughtfully.

Pansy was the only person living who knew that he’d been harboring a secret crush on Potter for… well, years.  But she’d always discouraged it before. 

 “Even if he is gay, and there’s certainly no evidence that he is,” she’d said one day.  “He’s the kind that wants the picket fence, darling.  He’s so upright and earnest it makes my head hurt.”

 “So?”  Draco had argued.

 She’d merely patted him on the head with an indulgent smile.

 But now, here she was, texting him that Potter was buying a house when she’d even discouraged conversation about the man before.  Of course, once he’d found out that Potter was gay earlier in the week, he’d been all but doing back flips when he told her.  She’d still tried to dissuade him.

 “Draco, you’ll get hurt.  He isn’t going to take you up on a fling, and you don’t do permanent.”

 “Pansy,” he answered earnestly.  “Maybe that’s because he was never a possibility before.”

 She’d stared at him in speculation, but hadn’t said a word.

 And now Pansy, who absolutely never discussed her business dealings, was texting him to tell him that Potter was in the market for a house.  So, either she was so excited that she’d forgotten her usual discretion… unlikely.  Or…

 A slow, fond smile pulled at Draco’s full lips.  Ah, Pans.  She’d tossed her ball into his court.  And there was no better co-conspirator than Pansy. 

 So, Potter was buying a house. 

 The plan that Draco had implemented to pique Potter’s interest with anonymous gifts had hit a bit of a snag when Draco floundered for inspiration.  He’d known Potter for years, but he didn’t really know his taste, or his preferences.  (Well, he hoped he knew some of his preferences, he thought with a surge of warmth, but put that thought on the back burner for a more opportune time.)

 But with a home purchase on the horizon, that opened up a whole new world of possibilities.   Filled with a sudden surge of excitement, Draco pushed up off of the couch, determined to get dressed and go shopping.

oooOOOooo

 

Harry stared at the latest box to arrive at his flat, filled with a growing sense of expectation.  It had been so long since he’d been excited about anything, but the second anonymous gift in three days was cause for a bubble of anticipation in his stomach.  He didn’t know who was sending them, but he’d grinned like a kid when he’d seen that barn owl at the window once again.

 Now he stood looking down at the lid of the box, at his name once again scrawled in that beautiful script, and wiped suddenly damp palms on his denim covered thighs.  He untied the red ribbon holding the box closed, and lifted off the lid.

 A slight frown of confusion made a line between his brows when he saw a string of Christmas lights nestled in the tissue paper.  He picked it up, and read the tag.

 “Merry Makers Magical Neverending Christmas lights.  Spelled to be as long as you need them to be to decorate the outside of any home, from a cottage to a mansion.  Guaranteed to fool Muggles into thinking they’re standard lights, while offering the busy wizard a perfect answer to trimming the outside of a home without the expense.”

 “Huh,” he muttered, still confused.  He set it aside when he saw that there was a card in the bottom of the box, and once again, he lifted it out.

“Deck the Halls, Harry!” the same lovely script pronounced.  “And good luck in finding the perfect home.”

 Harry blinked, startled.  Someone was sending him Christmas lights to decorate a house he’d just decided to buy.  How did they know he was even in the market? 

 Wait, maybe Parkinson had something to do with this, he thought.  She’d sent him her card at the restaurant… but even as he thought it, he was shaking his head.  That didn’t make any sense.  The first package, addressed in the same almost formal looking handwriting, had come before he’d thought about buying a house.  Truth be told, those stockings had been what had prodded him forward on something he’d been pondering for over a year.  So it couldn’t have anything to do with Parkinson…  
He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze returning to the lights, a bemused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

 He should probably find the whole thing faintly alarming. 

 But he didn’t.


	6. A Place to Call Home

Harry moved briskly down the hallway at the Ministry towards the offices that housed the Aurors Division.  He’d been out of the building on a call all afternoon, and now he was late for a briefing about another case with Kingsley and someone from the Muggle Liaison office.  His black winter robes swept behind him as he moved and he nodded tightly to people who stared as he passed.  Many at the Ministry thought him terse and uncommunicative; only those closest to him knew that Harry was still extremely uncomfortable with the mantle of his fame, and what that fame had done to any potential for a normal personal life.    
  
Harry was very circumspect about his personal relationships; it was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.  Fresh from his separation from Ginny and desperate to find someone who could care for him, he’d been taken in by a much older wizard who had used him shamelessly, then threatened to go to the media.  Harry had been devastated and humiliated, ready to pay him whatever he’d wanted just to go away.  It was one of the times he’d be forever grateful for Hermione’s presence in his life; he didn’t know exactly what she’d done, and as a law enforcement officer, he didn’t want to.  But the next time he’d run into the man, instead of sly looks and innuendo, Harry could see that he had absolutely no recollection of their relationship at all. When he’d tried to thank Hermione, she’d merely asked him to promise never to be so careless again.

And he hadn’t been.  In fact, he hadn’t had a ‘relationship’ since, and when the loneliness got to be too much, he visited Muggle clubs for the evening.  He never took anyone home, he never got their number, and he didn’t see them more than once.  He currently lived in a furnished flat that was practical but impersonal.  There were a few of his memento’s scattered about, but most remained in boxes.  He went to work and he came home, and the older he got, and the more evenings he spent alone and the more distance he put between himself and those around him, the more colorless his life became, as if it were fading to black and white.

 But there had been color lately, he mused with a quirk of his lips.  Red velvet embroidered with white silk, and a string of Christmas lights.  He’d plugged them in and the way the colors had danced around his sterile gray and white living room had been almost mesmerizing.  He wanted that, he’d decided.  He wanted life, and color, and laughter.  And love.  He wanted love.  Perhaps that was why the person sending the anonymous gifts seemed less like a stalker and more like a friend.  The gifts had brought color into his life, and made his pulse beat faster and his stomach flutter and… he liked it. 

 He rounded the corner that led to his office and saw Hermione exiting it.

“There you are!” she said with a bright smile. 

 “I got held up,” he said, leaning it to press a kiss to her cheek. 

 “I just wanted to give you this.”  She held up a small square of heavy velum.  “Estate agent’s card.”

 “Ah, thanks.”  He read the name on the card, still moving towards his door.  “I’ll give her a call later…”

 “Harry,” Hermione said a bit more insistently, and he paused, lifting his eyes to hers.  She was watching him with a slight crease between her brows.  “You’re not seriously considering using Parkinson, are you?”

 Harry shrugged.  “I did check her out, Hermione.  She’s really made a name for herself…”

 “She’s still Parkinson,” Hermione said flatly.  “And you’re still news. Please, just…” she paused, but he could see the concern on her face.  “Be careful, all right?”

 Harry nodded.  “I will, love.”

 “I’ll see you later, then.”

 She disappeared into the hall as Harry’s long time assistant, Leandra Scott, bustled up to him, her hand full of memos.  Her steel grey curls bounced as she moved, and her half-glasses were perched on the end of her nose.

 “Minister Shacklebolt tells me to inform you that you’re late,” she sniffed.  “I informed him that I knew that before he did.  You also have messages from Dawlish, Humphreys and Myerson, all with field reports.  Shandling from the Unspeakable’s Office would like an appointment, and the substation in Surrey would like you to know that their toilet is broken.  Again. I reminded them that it was not under your job descriptions as Chief Auror to deal with their plumbing, and suggested rather forcefully that they call maintenance.”  Harry’s lips curled at the corners as he held out his hand for the memos.  “There’s a turkey sandwich and some pumpkin juice in your office.  You are to take ten minutes to sit down and eat, and then I will inform the Minister that you have returned.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry agreed with a lazy salute, and she peered at him over her half-glasses.

“No sass, young man.  Go eat.”  She started to turn away.  “Oh, wait.” She turned back, reaching into the pocket of her simple dark green robes.  “This was delivered for you by owl about an hour ago.”  Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the white envelope, until he saw the handwriting on the front.  It wasn’t from his secret gifter, and he was surprised how disappointed he was by that.  He took it from her with a slight nod.

 “Thank you, Lea,” he said softly.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 “Well, you’d be a dreadful mess, now wouldn’t you?”

 She turned and walked away, leaving him standing, watching her in bemusement.

 He turned and walked into his cluttered office, closing the door behind him.  On the blotter on his desk was the promised turkey sandwich and flagon of pumpkin juice, and he tossed the memo’s aside before dropping heavily into his chair.  He was about to toss the envelope aside as well, but at the last moment he decided to open it instead.

Immediately, a small photograph slid onto his desk.  He picked it up and looked at it, and smiled faintly.

 It was of a snow covered two story white house, simple yet timeless, its wrap-around porch and red brick fireplace lending hominess.  There was an archway across from the steps that led to the porch, under which sat a handsome snow man, and there was a carriage lamp next to the narrow lane that led to the front door.  Huge snow covered trees surrounded it and neatly tended hedges lined the drive, and as Harry stared at the picture, he could almost imagine walking up that curved lane, up the steps to the front door.  He studied the image for a long time, then turned the vellum around to read the note that had been written there.

 “Mr. Potter,” it began.  “This property has recently become available, and it seemed to me to be very much what you’d been interested in finding.  If you would like to see it, please contact me by return post.  It’s yet to be listed on the market, so we have a small window of opportunity to work with.  Please let me know if you are interested in seeing it.  Pansy Parkinson-Hunter.”

Harry read the note through again, then looked at the photograph one more time.  As he watched, the daylight seemed to fade and the lights in the image came on, throwing squares of golden light onto the pristine snow, and a slender curl of smoke lifted from the chimney.  Oh yes, Parkinson was good. 

And the house did, indeed, look just like what he’d been longing for.

He took out a quill to pen his response.


	7. It's All a Matter of Perspective

Draco stood in what Pansy had always referred to as the ‘red parlour’, staring in mystified fascination at a lavishly decorated Christmas tree in the corner. A lavishly decorated, upside down Christmas tree. He cocked his head to one side, studying the gravity defying tree, but for the life of him, he couldn’t make sense of it.

When Pansy had ‘summoned’ him that afternoon, and summoned was the only word one could apply to a text message that read; be at Highroad (which was the name of her and Ryan’s home) at three. Do not make me come find you,” Draco had abandoned the idea of an afternoon spent shopping with his mother. Pansy did not summon often or lightly, hence his presence in her parlor. Staring at the extraordinary tree.

“Good, you’re here,” she said briskly, busting into the room, studying a sheaf of papers in her hand. “I’ve only a few minutes. Come with me into the office.”

“Pansy,” he said, drawing her eyes. He gestured toward the tree, one brow raised in question.

“That,” she answered with a slight smirk. “Is Ryan’s idea of a joke.”

“All…right,” Draco responded, dragging out the word, clearly not understanding. Pansy huffed.

“He’s been an absolute nag this week about putting up the tree. I’ve told him that I was busy, that I had other things on my plate, but the man is unrelenting. So finally, exasperated beyond belief, I told him that if he was so keen on having the tree up, he could do it himself.” She shook her head. “He then asked where I’d like him to put it.” Draco felt his lips quirking up at the corners. “I refrained from the obvious,” she said in response to his grin, “and told him that he could hang it from the ceiling for all I cared. Hence…” She gestured to the tree. Draco’s smile broadened.

“You two are perfect for each other, you know.”

She smiled wistfully at the extraordinary tree. “I know.” She turned back to Draco then, briskness resumed. “Now, you come with me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted cheekily, but she ignored him.

When they were in her elegant mauve and cherry wood office, she waved him into one of the two chairs facing her desk before she took the large padded one behind it. She spent a few moments looking through the papers, then set them on her blotter and linked her hands on top of them, fixing him with a pointed stare.

“I’ve decided to hire you.”

Draco blinked at the unexpected announcement.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“I’ve decided to take you on as my assistant,” she said starkly, leaning back in the chair and eyeing him steadily.

“Well, pardon me, old dear,” Draco said a bit dryly. “But I don’t remember applying.”

“You didn’t,” she retorted.

Draco frowned at her. “Then what in three hells are we talking about?”

She stared at him for so long that he began to feel uncomfortable. “Draco, you know that I adore you,” she said finally. “Have done since we were in nappies. But you are too idle. Where once being part of the ruling class was attractive, now it just seems lazy.”

“I beg your pardon?” he huffed.

“Besides, what exactly do you do to fill your days? Shop with Mummy?” She smirked when he felt a heated blush climb his cheeks.

“Pansy, I have no idea what you even do,” he said dismissively. 

"I’ll train you.”

“What if I don’t want to work?” he retorted.

“Trust me, you want this job.”

They sat staring at each other for a long moment before Draco spoke again. “Pansy, what is this really about?”

“I need an assistant,” she said with a shrug. 

“So, hire one,” he shot back flatly. 

“I am,” she retaliated. Again, they stared at one another, but this time, Draco waited her out. Finally, she huffed. “Fine,” she said, leaning forward. “I cannot… ethically discuss my business with you. I have absolutely no problem skirting the edges of ethical issues, but I really cannot discuss clients, or they’re potential purchases, with someone outside of my office. However, if you’re inside of my office…” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but his pulse rate suddenly picked up. “What exactly are we talking about here?

A slow, feline smile curled across Pansy’s lips. “I’ve found this perfectly charming country house for a potential client: a potential client who’s of vast interest to you.”

Draco straightened slightly, his eyes widening. 

Pansy’s expression softened. “You have to find a way to be in the same room with him, darling,” she said quietly. “The anonymous gifts are lovely, if a wee bit creepy.” He colored. He’d shared that with her after a glass or two of wine. Otherwise, he probably never would have. “But,” she went on, “if you want Potter to look at you differently, you have to find a different way of appearing to him. Come to work for me; be my assistant. Let him see you as something other than the annoying prat who made his school years miserable.”

“Hey,” he protested, but it was weak.

“So,” she went on, all business once again. “I want you to start tomorrow. We’ve an appointment to show that house at eleven, and I want you here when he arrives.” She studied his robes carefully. “And I want you to wear Muggle business attire, so go shopping.”

“Muggle…” Draco bristled.

“Nicely cut dress slacks and button down shirts,” she went on, eyeing him speculatively. “Coordinating ties. Go to Harrod’s and check out the Ralph Lauren line. His style is perfect for you. Oh, and some fitted jumpers, too, not too tight but enough to show how lovely and slender you are…”

“Pansy, what in the world…” he started, but she was rummaging in the top drawer of her desk.

“Here,” she said finally, presenting a small square of plastic. “Muggle Credit Card. We can charge the wardrobe to the business…”

“Pansy,” Draco said without taking the offered card. “What’s wrong with robes?”

She smirked. “Not a thing dear,” she said wryly, “if you’re determined to cover up some of your finest assets with yards of fabric.”

Draco pursed his lips, and took the card.


	8. Love at First Sight

Harry moved through the cozy home, hands in the back pockets of his worn denims, carefully studying the details of the house.  It had been built early in the twentieth century, and had the attention to detail that most homes from that time period did.  Heavy crown moldings topped each of the large, light rooms, honey hued hardwood floors shone beneath his feet.  The rooms were all painted warm beige and golden tones, and the furnishings spoke of pieces selected with care. 

“The couple raised their family here,” Parkinson was saying as she showed him from room to room.  “Two boys and a girl.  But they’re all grown now, and it’s just too much house for the two of them.  Plus, they’re looking to relocate into town.”

Harry studied the large, over-stuffed camel colored sofa and the two tawny wing-back chairs that sat on either side of the elegant fireplace, cheerful plaid pillows and chenille throws artfully arranged.  The house had already been decorated for Christmas, with garlands of fruit, nuts, berries and cinnamon sticks across the mantle and a fully decorated tree in the huge bay window.  There was a muted plaid rug in earth tones on the floor, and a set of fire irons, well used, next to the hearth.  He turned and studied the room, and could almost picture a family there.  The staircase was visible through a wide doorway, its warm wooden banisters wrapped with more garland.

“Four bedrooms,” she went on.  “The master has an en-suite, and there are two other baths, one up, one off of the kitchen.”

She led him through the dining room, with its long table and six chairs, and its glass fronted sideboard laden with china and stem ware.   There was a brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a bright red and green plaid runner down the center of the table, topped by an arrangement of candles and evergreens.  A large window centered one end, heavy green drapes pulled back with brass fixtures, and through it there was an unobstructed view of the snowy yard and woods beyond. 

 With each successive room, Harry fell more and more in love with the house.  He’d almost been completely sold by the wooden sled that had been leaning against a hedge outside, a bright red velvet bow on its worn surface.  He could imagine living here, warm fires in the fireplace, the scents of cooking drifting through the homey rooms.

“And this,” Parkinson said triumphantly, gesturing broadly as she passed through a butler door and held it open for him, “is the kitchen.”

Harry stepped through the doorway, and caught his breath.  Oh, well… this was… well, it was perfect.

 There was a massive cooking surface in the center of the room, eight burners of various sizes.  The cooktop gleamed black, the edges were black marble.  Above it hung a rack of pots and pans of all shapes and sizes, copper and stainless steel and cast iron.  There was a vast bank of cupboards, and at one end, unless Harry missed his guess, that door led to a walk in pantry.  There was a double stainless steel sink that sat before another large bank of windows, another stunning winter view on display.  Harry was an excellent cook and loved to prepare meals, but what sold him on the kitchen, unconditionally, was the homey brick wall at the end, a black faced fireplace at its center, a scarred round kitchen table with mismatched chairs in front of it.  The mantle was draped with evergreen, there was a mirror hanging above, a figurine of Father Christmas and an antique clock tucked in amongst the garland.  To one side on the floor sat a pudgy felt snowman, but what caught and held Harry’s eye were the two velvet stockings hanging from the mantle.  They were red velvet and not white, but otherwise an almost exact replica of the two in a box safely tucked in his bureau at his flat.  They would make a perfect set of four, and he was sold.

“I don’t suppose it comes furnished and decorated,” he asked, walking to the table, running his hand over the nicked and scarred surface.  A family had sat here, eaten here, grown up here.  You could almost hear their laughter echoing down the halls, their love and happiness resonating in the walls, and Harry wanted that.  Desperately. 

He didn’t see Pansy’s smile, quickly hidden.  “As a matter of fact,” she said smoothly, “the Christmas decorations were provided by the staging company and are all for sale, and I do believe that most of the furnishings are available with the exception of the master suite.  You’re interested, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry said, his hand still moving over the surface of the table.  “I’m definitely interested.”

“You don’t want to see the upstairs?”

 “Oh, I want to see it,” he said softly.  “But I can transfigure the bedrooms if I don’t like them.  But this?  This is perfect.”

 “Excellent,” she said, letting her smile show.  “Just in case, I had my assistant stop by the office for the necessary paperwork to make an offer.”

Harry looked up at her then, a slight smile quirking his lips.  “Just in case, eh?”

She shrugged, crossing her arms over the cranberry red jacket she wore.  “I thought this might fit the bill.”

Harry looked around the room again, his eyes settling on the stockings.  “It fits.”

Just then there was the sound of the front door opening and closing, and Pansy walked toward the door that led into the dining room.  “We’re in the kitchen,” she called.  Footsteps responded to her voice, heading their way.

Harry looked around the room again, walking over to a door that led to a rear porch, hands in his back pockets, studying the view.  The back yard was fenced, he noticed.  And in a far corner, there was an ancient tree with a rope swing.  It really was just perfect.

“Very good,” Pansy was saying behind him.  “You’ve brought everything we need.  Mr. Potter is going to make an offer on the house.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Harry went very still at the sound of the deep voice, and a chill ran the length of his spine.  He stiffened, and turned very slowly.

Late afternoon sunlight chose that moment to shine through the window over the sink, and cast a golden glow on two very different heads of shining hair.  Parkinson’s dark bob, lit to a shining mahogany.  And sleek white blond, the highlights so stark they might have been silver.  Their heads were close together as they studied the sheets of paperwork on the kitchen table, and it gave Harry a moment to study him. 

He was as slender as he’d always been but there was a new taut, muscular look to that leanness.  He was wearing black wool slacks that made his legs look impossibly long, and a double breasted black wool pea coat with the collar turned up that reached just the top of his thighs, a soft grey chenille scarf around his throat.  His pale skin was flushed from the cold, and his lips were full and looked slightly chapped, and saliva flooded Harry’s mouth on sight of him.  As if he could sense Harry’s gaze, his eyes lifted from the paper work.  Green caught grey, and held, and Draco Malfoy straightened slowly, his expression pleasant but guarded. 

“Mr. Potter,” Parkinson said brightly.  “Of course you remember my assistant, Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nodded tightly, his eyes still on Draco’s.  Of course, he remembered him, he thought a bit frantically.  He’d been fantasizing about him for years.


	9. Abercrombie and Fitch and Frustration

He’d made an offer on the house.

Harry could scarcely believe it.  Without consulting a soul, without discussing it with his friends, he’d made an offer on a house.  A full purchase price offer, and Parkinson, as his representative, told him that she was quite certain that it would be accepted and that he could be in by Christmas.  He felt both giddy, a bubble of excitement floating in his stomach, and incredibly guilty.  Guilty, because even though he’d met Hermione for tea and then accompanied her into Muggle London to do some Christmas shopping, he hadn’t said a word about it.  For some reason, he just… wasn’t ready to discuss it yet.  Especially not with someone who he knew would get that ‘sour persimmon’ look on her face when she realized that instead of calling her estate agent, he was going through Parkinson. 

He’d known the house was his from the moment he’d stepped onto the wrap-around porch and approached the front door.  Once inside, the deal had been sealed in his mind almost immediately.  And then he’d seen that kitchen, and there wasn’t any reason to go any further.  It was his house, and he’d have paid almost anything for it.  Fortunately, he hadn’t had to; the price had been, in his mind, more than reasonable, and he’d signed the papers without so much as a second thought.

Well, no second thoughts, but with hands that shook.  And that was because of the appearance of Parkinson’s assistant.

In his wildest dreams, he’d not imagined seeing Malfoy in that kitchen.  Well, maybe in his wildest dreams, but that was another story.  He’d had some pretty wild dreams about Malfoy over the years, some of which made him shift uncomfortably just to recall them.  And there he’d been, looking…. God.  Looking phenomenal.

Harry sighed softly, and Hermione glanced at him.  “One more stop, Harry,” she said quickly, misinterpreting his mood.  “I just want to go to Abercrombie and buy a pair of jeans for Ginny.  She’ll be so excited to get Muggle denims…”

“No, that’s fine,” Harry said quickly, hunching his shoulders in his jacket.  “I’m in no rush, really.” It was Saturday.  All he had to go home to was an empty apartment, and a mobile that he desperately hoped would ring with news about his house.  He smirked slightly.  ‘His house’. 

The Abercrombie and Fitch at Mayfair was bustling with activity as they walked through the doors.  Harry had been there once before, buying trousers and his favorite leather jacket, but he was still impressed by the towering ceilings and the old world décor mixed with those stunning photographs of half-naked models.  In fact, they’d scarcely stepped through the door when an enormous poster on the back wall of the store caught his eye, and he went completely still, staring.

It was of a man, lying on his side, most of his face obscured but enough visible to show that he was a blond.  Blond hair brushed his bare neck. His skin was fair, made to appear even more so by the deep red velvet suit that he was wearing.  The red velvet Santa suit, complete with faux fur, open down the front revealing a muscled chest and an impressively striated eight pack.  The man was slender, and had beautiful hands, and as Harry stared at them, a vision of another set of hands superimposed itself over the ones that he was looking at; aristocratic hands, with long, thin fingers and nails buffed to a soft sheen.   Hands that had looked so efficient when pointing out where he should initial.  Hands that had taken the quill from him, their fingers brushing, sending a surge of heat straight to Harry’s groin.  Their eyes had met and held again, and then Malfoy had nodded and smiled faintly, and been gone.  And Harry had wanted to call him back, and ask him to lunch or to dinner or to breakfast, and just stare into those wide grey eyes, and reacquaint himself with that biting sense of humor , and kiss those chapped lips, and toss him on his back on that worn kitchen table and…

Instead, he’d nodded politely and let him go.  And now he stared at a body that was fit and pale, and he wanted all over again.

“Harry!”  Jostled out of his reverie, he looked up to find Hermione standing beside him, her hands on her hips as she looked up at him in exasperation.

“What?”

“I’ve been talking to you for five minutes, and all you’ve done is stare at that poster.”  She smiled a bit indulgently and leaned toward him, lowering her voice.  “I’m beginning to think Ron’s right, and that you need to get laid.”

Harry felt color slipping up his neck even as she laughed lightly, and he followed her up the nearby staircase with one thought in his mind.

She had no idea how right she was, he mused.  No idea at all.


	10. Peppermint Tease

When Harry had received the call on his mobile from Parkinson that his offer on the house had been accepted, he’d been ecstatic.  So ecstatic in fact, that he’d almost immediately bounded up from the sofa in his flat’s living room and begun clearing the few personal items that he’d set about from the shelves, pulling the boxes they’d arrived in from his closet and packing them away. 

It took him exactly forty-five minutes to clear the space of anything remotely personal.  And he’d lived there for nearly two years.  As he studied the living room, he realized that the only piece of furnishing that would be moving with him was the large flat screen television, and that gave him pause.  He’d lived there for twenty-two months, and he could wipe his presence from the place in under an hour.  

It would never be that way with the house, he thought.  He already had ideas for moving the furniture once the tree came down in the living room, and after seeing the large master suite upstairs, he could envision that sumptuous bed he planned to buy centered on the west facing wall.  He was going to buy some art he’d admired to hang above the bed, and this fantastic down filled satin comforter he’d spotted while shopping with Hermione, and for the first time in his life he was excited about making someplace into a home; his home.  He’d felt like a nomad for most of his life; now, he was coming home. 

He’d been so excited he’d scarcely been able to sleep that night.  So excited, in fact, that he’d all but forgotten the little detail of just who Parkinson’s assistant was.  But the moment his eyes were closed and he’d actually drifted off, what sleep he did get was populated with dreamy visions of writhing smooth pale skin against dark ruby-toned sheets, and he woke up hard as a rock. 

Twenty minutes in the shower with a bottle of conditioner that he rarely used on his hair helped some, but not much. 

And now he was seated in the office in Parkinson’s lovely home, and the author of his discomfort had just entered through the door, looking damn near edible. 

When had Malfoy given up robes, he wondered?   He traced his movement across the room, completely unaware of the hunger on his face.  

Today, Malfoy was wearing pale grey wool slacks and a darker grey fitted cashmere jumper over a silky white button-down and tastefully striped tie.  His hair was sleek, not so severe as it had been in school, slightly loose over his forehead and brushing his pale brows.  And the way he moved, Harry thought, swallowing deeply; hips canted slightly forward, long legs languid, narrow boot clad feet nearly silent on the hardwood floor.  Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen someone move like that… well, no one other than Malfoy. 

“This just arrived by courier,” he said with a bright smile, holding up a thick packet. That smile was so glamorous that Harry could only stare. 

“Excellent,” Parkinson said, her dark eyes bright.  She took the packet and opened it, and flipped through the documents quickly, lifting her eyes to Harry.  “Would you care for anything while I go through these?  A glass of wine?” 

“No, thank you,” Harry said, surprised by how deep his own voice sounded.  He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and missed the smirk on Draco’s face. 

She gestured to a crystal vase on her desk that held an assortment of candy canes.  “A peppermint, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” he said more firmly.  “I’m fine.” 

“Oh, may I?” Malfoy asked brightly, leaning over the desk, placing an amazingly fit arse on display right at eye level.  Harry stared for a moment, then quickly looked away.  “I’ve a terrible sweet tooth, and I do love candy canes.” 

Parkinson sent him a slight smirk that Harry couldn’t define.  He never had understood these people.  “Be my guest.” 

“Thanks much.” 

Malfoy selected one of the larger candy canes and stood by the desk, one hip cocked slightly as he lifted the candy to his full lips.  And licked it slowly, from his fingers, up and around the curve, and then back down again.  And Harry watched that pink tongue, and thought ‘I’m in hell.’ 

Malfoy didn’t just lick the candy, he fellated it, turning it in his hand, popping the straight end into his mouth, his cheeks going hollow as he sucked.  He looked so completely debauched as he did it, cheeks fluctuating, making Harry believe that he must be fluttering his tongue around the sweet, and Harry had to close his eyes and bite the inside of his lower lip, crossing his legs uncomfortably.   He knew the man wasn’t intentionally trying to seduce him, and yet his cock didn’t know that and began to fill in his trousers.  Grateful for the long over coat he’d worn, Harry pulled it across his lap and shifted again in the chair. 

“Everything seems to be in order.” She looked up at Harry then with a bright smile.  “A few more signatures, and the house is yours.” 

“Wonderful,” Harry said hoarsely, sounding suffocated. 

“I’ll just initial here, and here…” she said, white quill moving quickly.  “And then… Draco, could you take these to Mr. Potter and show him where he needs to sign, please?” 

Malfoy shot him a swift smile.  “Certainly.”  He popped the end of the candy cane into his mouth, then took the papers and a small clipboard from Pansy, and retrieved a quill from her desk. 

Harry had known that it was coming, and yet he was unprepared for what the feeling of Draco actually leaning over his shoulder would entail. He felt the solid chest against his upper arm, the warmth of him even through the thick wool of his coat.  And when he leaned over, setting the clipboard on Harry’s lap, that light weight on the top of his erection caused him to jerk uncomfortably. 

“Are you all right, Potter?” He asked solicitously, close enough to Harry’s ear that he thought he could feel the warm rush of his breath.

“Fine,” Harry said tersely.  “I’m fine.”  He scooped the clipboard from his lap and took the quill in one trembling hand.  “Now, where…?

“Here,” Malfoy pointed, leaning over his shoulder again, one long finger pointing to each place.  “And here, and then again here…” 

Harry scribbled as quickly as he could, but the entire time he was distracted by the closeness of the other man’s body, and the scent of his cologne, mingled with the sugary minty fragrance of the candy cane.  Desperately, he thought he might get hard every time he smelled mint for the rest of his natural life.  He signed as quickly as he could, but when he heard a faint slurping, sucking sound from above him, his cock lurched dangerously.  

“Is that… is this all?  You need, I mean?  Because I have… I’ve got to… if there’s anything else…”  He knew he sounded like and idiot and yet, he couldn’t help it.  His brain simply refused to function while his cock was throbbing in rhythm with his pounding heart. 

“I believe that’s all we need for now,” Parkinson answered him with a slight smile.  “We’ll let you know if there’s anything else.  We should have keys for you by the end of business tomorrow if there are no further complications.” 

“Good, good,” Harry said quickly, handing Malfoy the clipboard and pushing to his feet.  “I’ve got… something with work…”  He glanced into the handsome face to find the grey eyes studying him calmly, and paused, staring back.  It took him a moment to draw back from the pull of those hypnotic eyes.  “I need to go.”  He left as quickly, and he hoped as gracefully, as he could, grateful for the cold air that hit him in the face the moment he was outside of the front door.  It didn’t seem to help with his erection however, and walking away through the crunching snow was more than a little uncomfortable.

*******

Draco plopped into the chair that Potter had so gracelessly evacuated, and continued to suck on the candy cane in a leisurely fashion, crossing his long legs negligently. 

Pansy looked at him over the top of her desk, a slight smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

“You,” she said archly, “are a wicked, wicked man who is no doubt going straight to hell.” 

Draco merely smiled slowly around the candy cane.


	11. Naughty or Nice

“I can’t believe you did this without even telling us.”

Harry was standing is the small, serviceable kitchen in his flat, cupboard doors open and boxes stacked on the floor. The top one was open, and he was wrapping his stemware in newspaper by hand and carefully fitting it into the open box. He’d realized that while his personal mementos had been dealt with relatively quickly, he still needed to pack up his kitchen, and he preferred to do it the old-fashioned way.

“I mean, honestly Harry, what was it? The first house you looked at?”

He rolled his eyes expressively, knowing that Hermione couldn’t see him. She’d arrived just after he’d gotten home from work, and he hadn’t had time to hide the paperwork on the house before she’d seen it on the coffee table. She’d then followed him into the kitchen and seen the boxes, and hadn’t much paused for breath since.

“Actually,” Harry clarified, setting another crystal paper wrapped glass carefully in the box. “It was the only house I looked at.”

“Harry,” she said, sighing heavily. “That isn’t how you buy a house.”

“It is if it’s the right house,” he answered unflappably, closing the top of the box and taping it shut. “And this is the right house.”

“How do you know if you haven’t looked at any others?”

He turned to find her standing behind him, legs planted, hands propped on her hips, face a picture of exasperation. He crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring her wide placed stance. “Because,” he said, “the moment I walked into it, for the first time in my life, I felt like I was home.” She stared into his eyes, her own brown ones gradually softening. “Can you please just accept that for once, I might know what I’m doing?”

She sighed softly, but her hands dropped from her hips. “But… Parkinson, Harry.”

He knew that this was actually the crux of Hermione’s problem with his purchase of the house. He resolved in that moment not to discuss with her just who Parkinson’s assistant was; he didn’t think he could deal with that lecture. He picked a marker up off of the counter and quickly scrawled ‘wine glasses’ on the top of the box.

“She’s been very professional,” he said evenly.   
  
“Yeah, and she will be, right up until she sells your new address to the  _Daily Prophet_.” Harry shot her a stern look. She rolled her eyes. “Those people cannot be trusted, Harry.”

“’Those people’, Hermione?” he scolded mildly. “I thought we fought a war over the dangers of ‘us versus them’.”

She sighed explosively. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded and set the marker aside, turning back to her. “I do. I just don’t happen to agree.” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Hermione,” he said. “Parkinson is a business woman; she knows perfectly well what would happen to her business if she played games with me, of all people. All right?”

Hermione frowned, but she didn’t argue.

“Besides,” he said, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “It’s a great house. You’ll love it. And you and Ron are the first people I’ll invite; I promise.”

She didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded. “Fine,” she huffed. “I’ve got to go home. We’re going to the Burrow for Ginny’s birthday…”

Her sentence was interrupted by the sound of scratching at the window over the sink, and Harry turned to see the brown barn owl looking at him impatiently through the glass.

“What in the world…?” Hermione began, stepping up next to him as he opened the window and let the animal in. There was a small box affixed to its leg, and even with Hermione standing there, Harry felt a bubble of anticipation fill his chest. He took the white box from the bird, fed it a treat, and closed the window behind it when it flew away.

He set the box on the counter and turned back to Hermione. “Well, you have a good time at the Burrow tonight. Give Gin my love…”

Hermione’s eyes stayed fixed on the box. “You were invited too, you know.”

“I know,” Harry answered. “But Corner seems to get twitchy when I’m around. It’ll be more comfortable for everybody this way. At least until he convinces her to marry him.”

“She isn’t going to marry him,” Hermione said dismissively. “She’s just dating him because she’s bored… aren’t you going to open that?” She gestured to the box.

Harry looked at it, sitting on the counter. His hands itched to open it, but not with Hermione standing there. “Later,” he answered shortly, and she frowned up into his eyes.

“Do you know who it’s from?” She asked.

“Pretty good idea, yeah,” he answered. She continued to stare until he felt heat sliding up his face.

Her hands were back on her hips in a heartbeat. “Harry James Potter,” she said staunchly. “What in the world is going on?”

He sighed and crossed his arms a bit defensively. “I’ve been getting… gifts, I guess you’d say. From a secret admirer, of sorts.”

Her brows arched. “You’ve been getting gifts. From a secret admirer. Which means…” she frowned slightly. “Someone you don’t know.”

Harry’s shoulders tightened. “I don’t know that,” he said. “I might know them.”

“But you don’t know that you do,” she persisted. He shook his head tightly.

“What kinds of gifts?”

Harry sighed inwardly. “Some Christmas stockings. And some Christmas lights. Nothing sinister. Just…” he paused, and then shrugged. “Just… Christmassy.” She frowned heavily. “Don’t make a big thing out of this.”

Her eyes went back to the box. “Aren’t you curious to see what ‘Santa’s little helper’ has sent you today?” she asked wryly.

He was, very. He just didn’t want to open it in her presence, but she didn’t show any signs of leaving. Finally, he turned and pulled the box closer, untying the bright red ribbon that bound it closed. He felt Hermione sidle closer against his side.

When he lifted the lid, he had to move the tissue paper inside to get to the gift folded within it. His fingers touched soft flannel fabric, and he could see that whatever it was, it had writing on it. Lifting it from the box, it unrolled in his hands until he realized that he was holding flannel pyjama bottoms. One leg was red with white writing on it; the other was white, with red writing. The first leg read ‘naughty’. And the second? Of course, it read ‘nice’.

Harry felt a smile pulling his lips up at the corners, until Hermione reached past him and retrieved the card from the box before he had a chance to.

“Hey,” he protested, but she was already reading it.

“ _So_ ’,” she read aloud. “ _’Which is it, Harry? Naughty, or nice?_ ’” Her expression told him exactly what she thought of the gift, but he just smiled.


	12. Visions of Sugarplums

_…Draco stirred to find himself sprawled over ruby-red satin sheets, clutching a pillow, reaching towards the other half of the huge bed. Feeling around, he realized that he was alone, and he sat up, pushing his long fringe back with his hand, looking around the dimly lit bedroom. It was a lovely room, but he wasn’t interested in the décor, only in why he had been abandoned. Scooting towards the side, which seemed very far away, he glanced down and saw that he was wearing a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms that were too big for him, and nothing else. Flannel pj’s that were soft as velvet, and had ‘Naughty’ written on one leg, and ‘Nice’ on the other, and he smirked. Well, it hadn’t taken him long to get his companion out of those, had it?_

_Pushing to his feet, he padded barefooted across the hardwood floors to the door that led to the hall, and then following a dancing pattern of lights on the wall at the top of the stairs, he turned and went down them silently, arms crossed across his bare chest. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he peeked around the corner into the livingroom, and went very still. Standing next to the opulently decorated tree, wearing nothing but a Santa hat, was the object of his affection. And he looked sensational._

_Fairy lights played over the satiny skin that covered imposing shoulders and muscled arms. That broad back, wide across the top, tapering down into a v-shape at the hips, was stunning, but the arse beneath it was even more so. Round, taut, indents of dimples just at the top, muscled hollows on each side. It flexed when he bent and lifted a present from beneath the tree, and Draco’s mouth went dry just looking at him._

_And then he glanced over his shoulder, and muscles shifted and played under that smooth skin and the smile that lit his face rivaled the twinkling lights for brightness. And his eyes, green as the fir tree he stood next to, shone with an emotion that made Draco’s heart pound hard in his chest._

_“Hey.” He grinned, and his teeth flashed white._

_“Hey,” Draco answered, stepping further into the room. “I missed you.”_

_The smile mellowed. “Just playing Santa,” came the answer._

_“I was cold.”_

_That smile, dimple just to the left of a mobile mouth, ripened. Never had Draco realized that a smile could hold so many different meanings, but this man’s did. His heart began to beat faster when he recognized this particular smile; sultry, sexy, promising._

_“I can warm you up.”_

_“I was counting on that, actually.”_

_He began to turn then, and Draco’s eyes dropped in anticipation, and…_   
  


…he came awake as his wand began to buzz on his bedside table, his morning alarm.

“No!” he groaned, fisted hand pounding on the bed. “No, no, no! Goddamn it!”

He rolled onto his back, shifting uncomfortably when his morning erection rubbed against the inside of his pants.

“Two more bloody seconds,” he huffed, staring at the hawthorn wand still buzzing on the nightstand. “Two more bloody, fucking seconds…”

He huffed and waved his hand at the offending wand, and the buzzing stopped, then he lifted both hands to his head and fisted them in his tousled hair. ‘So close,’ he thought. He’d been so close.

But maybe, he mused as he lay there, his imagination wouldn’t have been up to the task of providing him with an image of a full-frontal Potter, anyway. He’d had a pretty good picture of that arse in his head; he’d had to study it for ‘research’ for the proper sizing of the pyjama’s, after all. Where Draco had remained nearly as slender as he’d been in school, Potter had added nearly a stone or more in muscle to what had once been a seeker’s slight frame; there was nothing ‘slight’ about him anymore. The jeans he wore hugged the rounded arse, and those jumpers of his might be hideous, but they did a nice job of delineating the muscles in his back and his chest. In fact, Potter was a specimen, and the more time Draco spent in his company, the more he wanted him. 

He stacked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He’d just have to pick up his efforts to get through to Potter, he thought, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. The anonymous gifts were a nice touch, but he might have to try something more direct. Before the man drove him completely out of his mind. 

When the wand buzzed again, Draco picked it up and muttered; ‘Finite Incantatem’, then padded off to take care of his ‘problem’ in the shower. Once his head was clear, maybe he’d have some new ideas to speed up the time-table. And as Potter was picking up the keys to his new house from Pansy that day, he might just have the opportunity.


	13. Lollipops and Teddy Bears

Harry felt just like he had that first Christmas at Hogwarts, when he’d realized that some of the presents under the tree in the Gryffindor common room were for him.  He’d spent the formative years of his life learning the hard way that gifts weren’t for him, that he was too odd and too strange to be included in the Christmas festivities.  Then, in one morning, all of that had changed, and there were presents under the tree with his name on them, and he’d understood the meaning of wonder.  Now he stood in Parkinson’s sitting room, waiting for her to bring him the keys to his house, and that sense of wonder was back.  He owned a house.  He owned the perfect house, and that excited eleven-year-old was alive in him and his wonder was very real.

So excited that he couldn’t sit still, he paced the room with his hands in the pockets of his short leather jacket, looking at the art on the walls, briefly studying the extraordinary tree that still hung, upside down, from the ceiling.  It was odd, but then, Parkinson was a bit odd, he thought.  And yet, he also found himself liking her.  She was refreshingly direct, she met his gaze unflinchingly, and she didn’t seem the least bit over-awed by his fame.  Of course, they’d known each other for more than a decade and hadn’t liked each other much for the first part of that time, but he always appreciated someone who looked at him as saw just Harry Potter, instead of ‘Harry Potter, War Hero and Dark Lord Slayer’.  God, that got old.  Her lack of deference and her wry sense of humor were bracing and kept him on his toes, and he liked it. 

He’d sort of hoped that Malfoy would be around this morning, but he hadn’t seen him yet.  The house-elf who’d answered the door had shown him into this room with instructions that ‘Miss Pansy will be seeing Mr. Potter directly,’ and even though he’d glanced through the doorways and tried to see up the stairs,  there’d been no sign of a sleek body or a head of fair hair.  That disappointed him more than he cared to admit.  He was getting a huge kick out of his ‘secret admirer’, but he found himself thinking about Malfoy at odd intervals through out the day as well, and that little scene with the candy cane, well… it had certainly gotten his frustrated libido’s attention.

There were pictures on the marble mantle above the fireplace, nestled into a festive garland, and Harry found himself walking closer to study them just to find something to do.  They were all wizard photo’s, and he recognized some of his old school mates waving back from the frames.  Zabini was there, and Nott, and Bulstrode.  They were wearing their school robes and posed in front of one of the towering trees in Hogwarts Great Hall.  He paused at another, which showed Parkinson and a sixteen-year-old Malfoy.  He was sitting on a bench and she was sitting on his lap, and they were smiling at the camera.  Harry was surprised to find that watching Parkinson run her fingers through that white-blond hair was still faintly irritating.

Right in the center of the mantle, there were two photos of small children.  One, a little girl with mahogany pigtails wearing a very prissy green and white ruffled dress and licking a giant lollipop, and one of a little boy, asleep under a quilt, a Santa hat on his head and a teddy bear clutched in his arms.  His hair was very fair and looked incredibly soft, and his cheeks were round and faintly pink, and in the background, a fire burned merrily in a hearth and there were presents under what was visible of a Christmas tree.  Harry felt drawn to the photo, so much so that he found himself reaching out and picking it up, just so he could study the small face, watch the little chest rise and fall with each soft breath.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter.”

Harry turned, the photo still in his hands, as Pansy sailed into the room.  She was wearing a bright red dress and towering heels, and her hair swung easily against her shoulders.  She saw the photo in his hands, and cocked her head to one side inquisitively. 

“Oh, sorry,” Harry said, feeling himself blush as he set the picture back on the mantle.

“No problem.”  She smiled.  “He was adorable, wasn’t he?”

Harry glanced back at the child and nodded.  “I didn’t know that you had any children.”

She laughed merrily, and he looked into her animated face, confused.  “I don’t.” Her laughter faded to a fond smile.  “That’s Draco.  His mother gave me that a few years ago, and I put it out every Christmas.  I adore the hat.  And if I’m not mistaken, he still owns the bear.  Whether he still sleeps with it or not…”  She shrugged, and Harry felt himself returning her smile before turning to look at the photo once again.

“I’ve your keys,” Pansy said, and Harry turned back to find her holding them up in her hand.  He’d been so fascinated by the photo that he’d actually forgotten for a moment, and he knew he was blushing when he crossed and took them from her hand.  “You can begin moving in whenever you like.”

Harry began to smile then, and couldn’t keep it from spreading across his face.  “Thank you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers.  “You’ve been… well, you’ve been great.”

“You’re welcome.”  Her answering smile was warm.  “Enjoy your new home.”

Harry’s grin felt as wide as his face.  “I plan to.  Thanks again.”  He started for the door then, but some niggling whim had him glancing once more at the photo of the little boy, then turning back to find Parkinson watching him with a smirk on her face.  “Uhm, you and Malfoy,” he paused to clear his throat.  “You’re… good friends, yes?”

“Have been since we were in nappies,” she answered evenly.  “Will be ‘til we’re in the ground.  Womb to tomb, Potter. ”

He nodded.  “If I asked you something about him, would you feel comfortable answering me?”

She studied him, as if assessing his merit.  “That would depend entirely on the question.”

He nodded again, shifting his feet a bit uncomfortably.  Finally, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.  “Is he… seeing anyone, right now?”

Neatly tweezed dark brows arched slightly.  “Romantically, you mean?”

He knew that his face was flooding with color, but he didn’t look away.  “Yes.”

One corner of the full red lips quirked upwards.  She waited just long enough for him to feel like squirming under that unblinking regard before she said calmly, “No, I don’t believe that he is.”

He nodded, feeling a smile begin across his face again as he pocketed his keys.  “Good,” he said, taking a step towards the door.  “That’s… good.  Well, thanks again.”  He nodded one more time, then turned and left the sitting room with a spring in his step.

oooOOOooo

Pansy watched him until he was out through the front door and it was closed behind him before she allowed herself to chuckle.  Turning on her heel, she crossed into her office and scooped her mobile up off of the top of her desk, punching in Draco’s number with a long, red-laquered fingernail.  When his voice mail picked up, she rolled her eyes.

“Call me,” she ordered after the tone.  “Immediately.   Trust me, you’re going to want to hear what I’ve got to tell you.” She paused, a saucy smile crossing her face.  “Let me just say this; it involves a certain dark-haired, green-eyed Gryffindork, and a question he just asked me.  A  _very interesting_  question.  Ta!”

She was still grinning when she slapped the phone shut.  Served him right for not picking up, the stinker, she mused.  She’d answer him when he called back.

The second time.


	14. Pennymustard’s Positively Perfect Wizard Crackers

Every year, the little shop just seemed to appear in Diagon Alley, right between Fortesque’s Ice Cream Parlor and Quality Quidditch Supplies.  It wasn’t there November 30th, and it was gone on December 25th, but for those 24 days “Pennymustard’s Positively Perfect Wizard Crackers”, crammed into a slender space that disappeared when it did, was one of the busiest shops in wizard London.  The bell over the door rang merrily, and once inside, shoppers were assaulted by the sumptuous scents of the season; cinnamon, cloves, cardamom. Gingerbread and sugar cookies of every shape and size were available, candy of every configuration.  And, given that part of the stores advertisement was that  _‘We cater to Wizard’s of any means, modest or well-heeled’_ , there was also everything from small inexpensive toys to elaborate diamond brooches available, for a price.

For as long as Draco could remember, visiting Pennymustard’s had been one of his favorite holiday traditions.  He’d begun accompanying his mother when he was very small, standing next to her at the counter as she’d painstakingly picked out the prizes for the crackers that would grace their plates for Christmas dinner.  No paper hats or balloons for Malfoy’s; the crackers had held everything from small brooms that flew to jewelry for the adults, to live fairies that sang as they hovered above the plates.  Narcissa Malfoy’s Christmas dinners had been legend, and the crackers had enhanced that image.  Since the war, the parties had become more modest, but the crackers were still very much a part of the celebration.

Which was why Draco found himself standing near the counter, waiting while both his mother’s and Pansy’s orders were bagged.

“Oh, you need to go to Pennymustard’s?” Pansy had said brightly.  “Do be a dear and pick up my order as well, will you?  It’s what Assistants  _do_ , darling, after all.”

“It’s what Assistants  _do_ , darling, after all,” he mimicked under his breath, huffing. He’d been in the blasted place for nearly an hour. Mother had just four this year; Hers, Draco’s, his Aunt Andromeda’s and his seven-year-old cousin, Teddy’s.  But Pansy had upwards of fifty, and it was that order that was taking the small, wizened sales clerk so long to bag.  Draco wanted to do a bit more shopping; he still needed gifts for his mother and for Ted, and he’d even considered having a gift basket made up for a certain first time home buyer he was aware of…

His mind drifted off as it did every time the thought of that home buyer flitted through it.  And it had done about every two minutes all day long.  He’d not been able to concentrate on much of anything from the moment he’d finally gotten Pansy on the mobile, after trying for nearly an hour, his pulse pounding in his ears.  “ _Potter asked a very interesting question_ ”… about what?  He’d been near to pulling out his own hair by the time she’d finally picked up. 

“Oh, sorry darling,” she’d said airily.  “I’d no earthly idea you’d be so very interested.”

“And you are being a complete and utter bint,” he’d growled.  “Spill.”

“Oh,” she’d said, sounding smug, “he just asked me if you were seeing anyone.” She’d paused for effect.  “Romantically.”  Draco’s mouth had fallen open and his heart had taking up a banging rhythm in his chest as Pansy had gone on blithely.  “I, of course, pretended to have no idea what he was talking about.”

“Wait.”  Draco blinked.  “You did… what?”  He sounded winded, and in fact couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.  He didn’t until Pansy laughed.

“I’m teasing.  I told him that I didn’t believe you were seeing anyone.”

Draco sat heavily in an arm chair in his living room.  “When did this happen?”

“This morning,” she answered, “when he came to pick up his keys.”

She went on to describe the conversation in detail, and by the time Draco hung up the phone, he had a bemused smile on his face.  Potter had asked about him.  Potter… had asked… about him.

He hadn’t been able to get much past that all day.  Potter had asked if he was seeing anyone, romantically, and the very thought of it made him feel giddy enough that it was almost embarrassing.  He’d been prepared to plot his way into the other man’s attention; the fact that he already had it was… well, gratifying.  And strangely terrifying, as well.

He’d been fixated on Potter, one way or another, for most of his life.  First it had been hearing tales of ‘The Boy Who Lived’, then they’d had their fateful encounter that had made them instant enemies all through school.  He’d fancied the man Potter had become since he’d yanked him onto the back of his broom, saving his life.  But he’d fancied him from afar; he’d fancied the ‘thought’ of Potter.  Then, he’d found out that Potter was gay, and he’d been fixated, once again, on getting his attention.

But what did he do with it, he wondered, grey eyes wide, once he had it?  Potter was not the kind of man Draco usually dated.  He was… well, he wasn’t a one night stand, that was all.  He was something else, something fine, something that Draco wouldn’t want to part with once he had it.  The thought was frightening, because for the first time in his life, he was actually afraid that he wasn’t good enough for someone.  He was tugging on his lower lip with his teeth when his eyes drifted up and he caught sight of himself in the mirror that ran the length of the small shops back wall.

He was wearing the full length grey wool coat that his mother had gifted him with the Christmas before, the one with the chinchilla collar and matching fur hat.  She’d smiled at him, delighted, when he’d modeled it for it.

“Oh, you look like a Russian prince,” she’d gushed, clapping her hands together, and as Draco stared at himself now, he could see that he did, in fact, look very elegant.  The color of the wool was a perfect match for his eyes, and the cut of the double breasted garment flattered his long, lean frame.  The soft fur hugged his chin, and the same color Cossack style hat covered most of his hair.  He’d seen the way that people had looked at him all day; he knew he cut a glamorous figure.  Why, there were two young women ogling him and giggling behind their hands even then.  Externally, he was beautiful.  There was no harm in acknowledging the obvious.  But inside?  He’d come a long way, he liked to hope, but even he knew that he was still spoiled, and vain.  What if once Potter got to know him, he still didn’t like him?  The thought made Draco feel cold.

“Here you are, young Malfoy,” the clerk said brightly, smiling at him with yellowed teeth.  “Give your mother and Mrs. Hunter my regards.”

Draco nodded absently and took the bag from his outstretched hand, turning from the counter to make his way through the crowded shop, his mind still occupied with thoughts of Potter.   He was so pre-occupied, in fact, that when he got to the shop’s door, he walked out of it and right into someone’s chest, his booted feet slipping on the icy walkway.

Hands caught his elbows and steadied him, and Draco lifted his eyes to murmur his thanks, and felt the words catch hard in his throat.  For the chest he’d collided with was broad and deep and covered in familiar black leather, and the eyes that lifted to his face and went wide in recognition were green.

Very, very green.


	15. A Fortuitous Collison

“….sorry, I wasn’t watching …”

“….silly of me not to be looking…”

They began to speak at the same time, and upon recognition, stopped speaking at precisely the same time.  Even with shoppers rushing past and bells ringing and somewhere in the distance carolers singing, the world seemed to stop and hold its breath.  Grey eyes were wide in a flushed face, black leather gloved hands gripped elbows covered in pale grey wool, and for a moment Draco was quite certain that all of the motion in the world had just… ceased.

“Are you all right?”

When had Potter’s voice taken on that smooth, dark chocolate, slide straight to your stomach and all points south quality?  And why had he never noticed that the man’s eyelashes were insanely long, and that he had a slight cleft in his chin, and that even though he’d probably shaved that morning a shadow darkened his square jaw and his upper lip and Draco wanted to see if the skin was coarse, or his beard was soft, and…

“Malfoy?  Are you all right?”

Draco blinked when he realized that Potter had repeated the question and was staring at him, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” he said, grateful beyond belief that his voice didn’t crack and that he managed to sound marginally coherent.

“You were sliding,” Potter said, leaning back to study Draco’s boot-clad feet, hands still curled around his elbows.  “You’re sure you …”

“No, honestly.  I’m… I’m good.”  Their eyes met and held again, and Draco felt color filling his face as heat climbed his neck.  Potter was… staring, and he felt the touch of those eyes on his skin as surely as he felt the hands on his elbows.  When they dropped away, he was surprised by how sorry he was to feel them go.  But then, as he’d been doing since they were eleven, Potter surprised him again.   He looked up, head cocked to one side, and lifted his hands up over Draco’s head.  Draco wasn’t sure what he was doing until he felt his hat being resettled carefully on his hair.  He stood very still, studying the intense concentration in Potter’s eyes, and felt a jolt of heat when fingers brushed his ears.  The tingling spread down Draco’s neck, and he realized that it was the brush of magic that he was feeling.  When Potter’s hands dropped away, he slipped them into the pockets of his jacket, and Draco fought for composure, wide eyes on Potter’s face.  He watched in fascination as his eyes dropped to the sidewalk between them and color began to seep into his cheeks.

“Your hat,” he said without looking up.  “It had… slipped.”

“I figured.”

Silence spread out between them, finally losing the startled quality and beginning to feel awkward.  But even so, Draco felt disappointment swamp him when Potter took a step back. “I should…let you go,” he said softly. “You looked like you were in a hurry.”

Draco was not an impulsive person.  In fact, he was the least impulsive person he knew.  He was shrewd, imminently practical, and was rarely rash.  He thought things through before doing them, calculated the likelihood of success, which was why he startled even himself when he spoke without thinking.  “No, not really. In a hurry, I mean.  Just… picking up some things.  Are you?  In a… hurry?”  His voice trailed off a bit weakly at the end and he had a sudden impulse to simply vanish into thin air.  He could do it, he thought, if he could get to his wand.  It was in his sleeve, and he could Apparate away without another stupid, bumbling, ineffectual word.  Merlin’s balls, he sounded like an  _idiot_!

The sudden urge to hex himself into oblivion faded though when Potter looked up at him with a shy, lopsided smile.  “Not really, no,” he answered, rocking a bit on his feet.  “You know,” he went on with sudden earnestness.  “If you aren’t, you know, in a rush, I could really use some help.”

Draco blinked at the sudden change in direction the conversation had taken.  “Help with what, exactly?”

“Shopping.”  Potter sighed heavily, and Draco couldn’t help it.  He laughed.

“This is tragic, is it?”

Potter rolled his eyes expressively.  “You’ve no idea.  I have to buy something for Hermione.  She wants something for their house, and I’m utter crap at this stuff. But I’d be willing to bet that you aren’t.”

Draco felt himself flush at the compliment.  “Something for the house.”  Draco raised one brow, feeling on firmer footing.   _Shopping_  he could do.  “Could you be a bit more specific?”

Potter turned and glanced down the long, winding street.  “She said something about baskets for her kitchen.  She even told me there was this wonderful weaver who had set up shop here on the Alley, but she didn’t tell me where…”

“He’s down near the end,” Draco answered.  “Just past Gringotts.  And his work really is rather remarkable.”  Draco had found himself standing near the open fronted shop earlier, admiring the intricately woven baskets.  A selection for wine bottles, with cooling charms woven into the design, had caught his eye and he’d considered buying one for his mother.

“Oh, you know about it?”  Potter asked eagerly, and Draco nodded.   Potter dampened his lips with his tongue, and the sight fascinated Draco.  That was certainly a mobile tongue...  “I don’t suppose you have a few minutes, to help me pick something out?”  Draco hesitated, forcing himself to concentrate, his heart leaping into his throat.  “I’d be forever grateful, truly.  I’ll even buy you coffee.”

Draco couldn’t help it.  The man was so earnest, and so bloody adorable, that he could only smile.  “Be still my heart.  So grateful that he’s willing to pop for coffee. ”

Once again, Potter turned the tables on him.  Shy and earnest dissolved into a slow, sexy smile that transformed his face completely, and made Draco’s mouth go dry.

“For starters.”

Potter held out his hand then, and Draco stared at it.  He had his hands full, but he desperately wanted to take that offered hand, and was even considering how to juggle the bags into one hand so that he could when Potter relieved him of the larger one.

“Here, let me take that.  Now, which way…?”

“Just down there, straight ahead,” Draco answered, bemused.  Potter was carrying his bag?

Potter fell into step beside him as they stepped off of the curb, and Draco felt a hand curl around his elbow solicitously as they walked, as if to steady him.  Or keep him close.

“It’s really fortunate that I ran into you,” Potter said, shooting him a slight smile.  Draco returned it before looking away.

“Isn’t it.” 


	16. The Platinum Standard

They moved off down Diagon Alley together, keeping pace, dodging frantic shoppers and run-away children.  Draco thought that Potter would release his elbow at some point, but the walk was icy, and he found himself faintly pleased when he didn’t.  Had anyone else tried to take his arm and direct him somewhere, he’d have made a scathing comment about being manhandled and treated like a woman but for some reason, instead of feeling invasive, that hand around his elbow felt steadying, and reassuring.  Just like the fact that Potter’s broad shoulders next to his seemed to offer comfort, and the way he angled his head, as if wanting to be able to hear anything Draco might be going to say, was immensely flattering.  Draco glanced to the side once again, caught Potter’s eyes on his face and basked in, for the moment at least, being the center of this man’s universe.  It was a heady place to find himself. 

And of course, it couldn’t last.

They were nearing the corner where they’d have to cross to go to the basket weaver’s, just ready to step off of the sidewalk and into the cobbled street, when a bulky form came barreling around the corner and nearly bowled right into them.  Draco felt his heart sink when he noticed the distinctive bright red hair peeking out from beneath a truly ugly purple and orange knobby wool hat that looked as if it had been knitted by a blind elf.  The purple and the orange and that  _hair_ ; it was a hideous combination.  Add to that the green jacket and flushed face, and Weasley resembled nothing quite so much as a piñata. 

He saw Harry, and skidded to a halt, his moon-shaped face a picture of relief.

“Harry!”  He gasped out.  “Thank God, mate.  You’ve got to help me; I’m so completely buggered…”

It was at that moment that he seemed to register that Harry wasn’t alone.  Not only that he wasn’t alone, but that he was with Draco, and that Harry’s hand appeared to be holding his elbow.  “What…  Harry, what are you doing?”

“Walking,” Potter answered archly, and had Weasley not been staring at his oldest friend in something like horror mingled with revulsion, Draco would have found the whole thing wildly amusing.  But there was something about that expression; he found he couldn’t bear to have it leveled at Potter, not on his account.

“Never fear, Weasley,” he said, affecting his laziest drawl.  “Potter nearly knocked me into the street not five minutes ago.  What is it with you Gryffindors?  You’re a public hazard.”  He shot Harry a quick look, and found the green eyes on his face, a frown between them.  “Seriously, I’m following him, harassing him unmercifully until he willingly buys me coffee to make it up to me.”  Draco tried to step away, but Potter’s hand tightened around his elbow.  “It’s all right,” he murmured.

“Draco kindly consented to help me with my shopping, Ron,” Harry said, his tone firm, his grip even more so.  His eyes never left Draco’s face even as he talked to his friend.  “Then, if he’ll agree, I’m going to buy him dinner.”

“Dinner?” Weasley weakly repeated.

“Dinner?” Draco heard himself saying faintly.

“If you don’t already have other plans.  Yes.”

Draco didn’t want to act as if the heaven’s had opened and a choir of angels was singing, but it was difficult.  He knew that he was blushing under that unblinking regard, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. 

“I can’t… think of any.”

“Excellent!”  Harry’s smile was brilliant when he turned back to his friend.  “Now, what were you on about?”

Ron was still staring at them, first at Potter, then at Draco, as if he were watching a tennis match, his eyes unnaturally wide. 

“Harry,” he muttered.  “You’re not… I mean, you aren’t –“ His voice dropped to a scandalized whisper “— _dating_ Malfoy?”

Draco saw Potter’s jaw set before he answered.  “Not yet,” he said, his voice clipped.  “But if you’ll give me an hour…”

He looked between the two men and seemed to sag a bit.  “Godric’s balls,” he muttered.  “Hermione is going to have a coronary.”  He then seemed to remember something far more pressing than who his friend was or was not dating, and his hands went to his head.  “Hermione!  Harry, please, please.  You have to help me make this right…”

“Calm down, Ron,” Potter said, reaching out to catch his arm.  “What are you on about?”

He looked nervously up and down the Alley as if someone might overhear, then leaned in close, his breath misting in the cold air.  “You know her wedding ring, the one I got back before I went to work with George?  The one I keep promising to replace?”

Harry nodded, and Draco just watched the two men in mild interest. 

“Well, I managed to get it away from her when she’d taken it off to wash the dishes, and she thinks she’s misplaced it.  I was going to take it and have a new stone set in it; a bigger one.  That was my plan for Christmas.”  He began to twist his gloved hands in clear distress, and Draco was actually afraid he might cry.  “Problem is, now I actually can’t… uh, find it.”

“You’ve lost Hermione’s wedding ring?” Harry asked, his eyes widening.  Ron nodded miserably.

“I had it in my pocket, Harry, right here.”  He patted his jacket.  “Wrapped in tissue, safe and sound.  But it’s gone now, and you know I’m crap at picking stuff out, and I’ll muck it up and be in even more trouble because I’ll have to admit that I’ve lost the original, and she’ll be at me about what an irresponsible arse I am, and…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Draco finally said in exasperation.  “Just pick out another ring!”

“But, I don’t know how!” Weasley moaned.  “I go into the jeweler, and they all look the same to me, and I don’t know her ring size, and…”

“Honestly.”  Draco shook his head.  “Where did you get the first ring?”

“Threadgood’s,” he answered.  “But, what…”

Draco’s brows arched in surprise.  “Really.  Well, Threadgood’s has a decent selection, and they’ll have her size on file.  Come along.”  He started off down the sidewalk, and when the other two men didn’t follow him, he paused and looked back.  “Are you coming?” His tone was arch.

“You’re going to… help?” Weasley asked, clearly stunned.

“What, I’m going to let you two pick it out?  Please!”  He rolled his eyes.

Weasley stared at him for a moment, his face assessing.  “I suppose it’s a thought,” he said slowly.  “You probably have better taste in jewelry than I do, being, you know…” He gestured with his hand, his wrist limp, and Draco arched a brow ironically. 

“Being what, Weasley?”

Harry crossed his arms slowly over his chest, green eyes frosty.  “Yes, Ron.  Being ‘what’, precisely?”

Weasley looked back and forth between them, and looked down, biting his lip.  “That didn’t come out the way that I meant it…”

“Oh, forget it, Weasley,” Draco said wryly.  “You can’t help but be an utter boor.  Come along.”  He turned and strode briskly away, knowing they’d follow.

 

oooOOOooo

 

“I’m going to owe you for this, aren’t I?” Weasley asked an hour later as they stood on the sidewalk, a bag containing a black jewelry box in his hand.  Draco shrugged.

“Only until you die,” he answered with a smirk.  Weasley rolled his eyes.  

“You’re sure she’ll like it,” he said, looking down into the bag, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

“Trust me,” Draco assured him.  “Your wife will love that ring.”

“It really is beautiful,” Harry seconded. 

 

It was a simple band of gleaming platinum, with their anniversary date engraved on the inside.  “You’re sure gold wouldn’t be… I dunno. Better?”  Weasley lifted his eyes to Draco’s.

“Absolutely not,” he answered firmly.  “She’ll recognize that it’s a platinum band, and you’ll be a hero.”

Weasley paused, then nodded.  “All right then.”  He squared his shoulders, finding Draco’s eyes.  “That was decent of you, Malfoy.  To help me with this.”

Draco shrugged dismissively.  “Don’t let it get around.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Weasley’s mouth.  “Wouldn’t think of it.”  He offered his hand, and after a slight pause, Draco shook it.  “See ya later then, mate?” he said to Potter, who nodded.  He smiled then, and turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Draco turned to find Potter studying him, his head cocked slightly to one side, his eyes narrowed.  “What?”

“I’m just wondering what else I don’t know about you, besides the fact that you’re actually much nicer than you want to let on.”

“I am not,” Draco huffed.  He turned to walk away, but Harry caught his arm and fell into step beside him.

“Are,” Harry persisted.

“Am not,” Draco sniffed.  “He was just too pathetic to be left to his own devices.”

“Fine,” Harry said, a grin in his voice.  “You were actually doing a public service, preventing him from buying horrid jewelry.”

“Precisely.”

Harry’s soft answering chuckle made Draco feel warm all of the way to his toes.


	17. Candlelight and Brandy

Harry sat back in his chair, fingers curled negligently around the stem of his wine glass. The blood red Merlot in the glass cast a crescent shaped blush shadow on the white tablecloth as he tipped it slightly, but he didn’t notice. He was too engaged in watching the man seated across from him.

As an adult, Harry could admit that he’d always been vaguely fascinated by Malfoy. When they’d been in school, it had mostly been because he’d thought him an incredible git, but since they’d been eighteen, there had been more to it than that, and as he watched him eat, and drink, and speak, and smile, he began to understand what that attraction actually  _was_.

The man was stunning, that was all there was to it. His white blond hair gleamed even in the soft candlelight, and his pale skin was flawless. He had fair brows and light eyelashes, but that didn’t detract from his appeal. His bone structure was etched and elegant, but where he’d once thought his appearance haughty, Harry realized now that it was just one of dozens of expressions that flitted across his mobile face. And his eyes, well… he’d once thought those eyes cold. He didn’t any longer.

When Harry had suggested that they dine at ‘Flic’s’, a small, trendy restaurant just off of Diagon Alley, Malfoy had sent him a surprised look. “It’s one of my favorites,” he said with a smile, which Harry had returned.

It was a very attractive, eclectic place; a hodgepodge of shapes and colors and decorating styles that seemed to meld into one thoroughly charming whole. The first floor had a casual bar and a bright, open air dining area that had a charmed ceiling much like the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The upper level had a darker, moodier feel. The upstairs bar was all dark wood and spicy scents and Indian print fabrics, and the small dining alcoves were more private, and more sensual.

The Host had recognized Harry immediately and had been all but desperate to seat him in the middle of the main floor downstairs. Harry had refused adamantly, insisting on a more private table. He should have guessed from the knowing gleam in the man’s eyes that he wasn’t going to get off easily. They’d been escorted upstairs, to a much smaller and more intimate table, but it could still be seen from every corner of the second floor, including the crowded bar.

When he’d begun to protest, Draco had touched his arm. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “You know I’m an utter attention whore.” His smile widened. “Cut him some slack. You’re good for business.”

They ordered, (Malfoy the Chilean sea bass with fennel in white wine sauce, Harry the steak and kidney Pie) and talked about their work. “Pansy bullied me into it, actually,” Malfoy answered, looking sheepish. “She said I was too idle. Interestingly enough, I started with one thought in mind, but the whole thing actually became rather… satisfying.” He shrugged, a tint of pink across his sharp cheekbones. “I like working. Go figure.” He’d looked up then, eyes studying Harry’s face. “What about you?”

 

Harry had shifted in his seat. “I think I did what was expected of me,” he answered. “Everyone figured I’d become an Auror; I just went along with it.” He frowned. “I think I did a good bit of that, actually. My sole purpose for so long had been to just…” He’d paused, uncomfortable.

“Save us all from a horrid end?” Draco provided, and Harry had looked up to find him studying him pensively. “Even those of us who probably didn’t deserve it?”

“I never thought that way about you,” Harry said, hoping Malfoy would see that he meant it. “You had no more choice in your role than I did in mine.”

 

Their eyes held for a long moment. “Thank you for that,” Malfoy murmured, cheeks even more pink.

“Anyway,” Harry went on, more to save Malfoy embarrassment than from any desire to talk about himself, “I advanced pretty rapidly through the ranks.”

“Indeed.” One of those mobile brows arched. “Youngest Chief Auror in history.” Harry was startled that he knew that detail, and he could see that Malfoy recognized it, but he just shrugged negligently. “I’ve paid attention. Is it everything you expected it to be?”

Harry scratched the side of his jaw thoughtfully. “I’m not sure what I expected, honestly,” he answered finally. “It’s not as exciting as I thought it would be when I was younger –“ Malfoy grinned, “—but it’s something I’m good at. And I have the best assistant in the world, who I would be lost without.”

Malfoy smirked. “Some handsome young thing who worships you?”

Harry laughed. “Hardly. Her name  is Leandra Scott, she’s about sixty years old, and I’m sure she was a staff sergeant in a previous life.” He grinned. “She keeps me on my toes.”

“Good for her.” Malfoy took a sip of his Reisling and eyed Harry over the rim of the glass. “So.” He set the glass aside. “When did you realize that a lovely wife and a house full of toddlers was not the route for you?” Had the question been asked sarcastically, and without the soft understanding in the light eyes, Harry might have been put off by it. He wasn’t.

“After sixth year,” he answered, eyes steady, voice even. “I think I’d known for a while; I just didn’t want to admit it. You?”

Malfoy gestured negligently with his graceful hand. “Always. Since I was old enough to crush, I’ve been crushing on boys.”

Harry ran his index finger around the rim of his glass. “I thought, at one time, that Parkinson…” he let his voice trail off when Malfoy laughed lightly.

“No, there was never any chance of that. Besides.” His lips quirked attractively. “We’d have killed one another.”

Harry’s smile deepened, and he gestured towards Malfoy’s nearly empty glass. “Would you care for another?”

The fair head angled to one side. “I think I’d prefer a brandy.”

“Excellent.” Harry had turned in his chair to get their waiter’s attention when the man in question appeared at his elbow, holding a tray with a snifter of amber liquor and an envelope on top of it. Harry blinked.

“I didn’t realize mind-reading was part of the service,” he joked.

“This is for you, sir,” the man said, setting the glass in front of Harry and handing him the envelope. “From an admirer in the bar.”

Harry frowned at the envelope that was now in his hand. There had been a few instances when people had sent him their mobile numbers or addresses, and he felt incredibly awkward with the first person he’d found himself interested in for a very long time seated across the table, no doubt watching him. He lifted his head and found that, yes, Malfoy’s eyes were riveted to the white square in his hand.

“Aren’t you going to open that?”

Even though he had a very bad feeling about it, Harry slipped the card inside from the envelope. And blanched. It was so much worse than he’d thought it would be.

The picture on the front was of a man, from the back, clearly naked but for a Santa hat on his head. He had very square shoulders, and a tapered back, the upper curves of his bare arse just visible. He was holding a sprig of mistletoe over his shoulder on a piece of green ribbon, right in the middle of his back, and the implication could not have been clearer.

He wanted to jam the bloody thing back into the envelope, but Malfoy was still watching him impassively, and he didn’t want to make more of it than it was. As casually as he could, aware that he was scowling, he opened the card.

Obviously, it had originally been given to someone else; probably whoever had sent it to him. There was a name scratched off at the top, and the signature at the bottom had also been obliterated. The message inside was something silly about ‘kissing under the mistletoe’, but what caught Harry’s attention was a note scrawled at the bottom.

“Potter; my tongue, your arse,” it read in bold black writing. “If you’re interested in something more warm-blooded than that blond, I’m in the bar.”

Harry saw that his hands were trembling, but he closed the card and tried to re-insert it into the envelope as indifferently as possible. He stopped when a fair hand curled around his wrist. He looked up to find Malfoy watching him impassively.

“May I?” He released Harry’s wrist, but held out his hand, palm up.

Harry paused. God, he really didn’t want to give Malfoy the card. But, without an embarrassing and drawn out explanation, he didn’t see any way around it. Sighing softly, he surrendered the card.

Malfoy looked at the picture, then up at Harry from beneath his brows. “People send you pictures of naked men often?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Harry answered. His voice sounded suffocated.

Malfoy flipped open the card, and Harry watched the mobile face as he read. The only indication that he felt anything about what had been written there was a faint red tinge that spread across his cheeks, and a tightening of his jaw.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said very calmly, pushing back his chair.

“Malfoy…” Harry began, then stopped when the flinty eyes lifted to his. “Draco,” he went on, his voice softer, “it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, I believe that it matters, quite a lot.” His tone was mild, but Harry saw the rigid set of his shoulders. He straightened, the card still in his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

Harry watched helplessly as Draco walked gracefully across the restaurant, and approached their waiter.


	18. This Kiss

Draco had cornered their hapless waiter near an archway between the dining area and the bar, and very politely, he thought, asked that he point out the table that the card and the drink had come from. He’d been something less than cooperative, and had looked at Draco as if he were faintly terrifying. Draco finally huffed and walked away from him, judging that identifying the culprit probably wouldn’t be too difficult.

He’d been right.

There were three young men seated at a table that had an unencumbered view of the table where Potter still sat, nursing his glass of wine and sending occasional tense glances into the bar. They had their heads together and were giggling, and as Draco approached, he overheard one of them say, “Where do you suppose the blond went?”

“He’d be standing right here,” he said smoothly, and it was imminently satisfying to see them jerk around in their chairs, eyes and mouths wide.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, keeping his tone very friendly. “I was just wondering if I could have a word with the author of this-” he held up the card, “—tasteful little missive.” The three of them, who all looked to be in their very early twenties, exchanged wide-eyed glances, but no one was forthcoming with a confession. “No?” Draco studied each of them in turn. “Well, I’m guessing it wasn’t you,” he said to one. “Your hair is nearly as light as mine. And for some reason-” his eyes went to another, who looked, frankly, as if he might cry, “—I’m guessing it wasn’t you, because I don’t think you’ve the stones. Which leaves-” his eyes fell on the third, and he leaned back in his chair negligently, his lips curled at the corner, “—you.”

“What of it?” the young man said, looking Draco up and down. “What do you plan to do about it?”

Draco’s own lips curled in answer. “Why, not a thing,” he said amiably. “I just came over here to make a couple of points for future reference.”

Very deliberately, but with a motion that seemed almost casual, Draco pushed up the sleeve of his cashmere jumper on his left arm, revealing just the curling tail of the snake of his Dark Mark. He then, quite slowly, set the card in the middle of their table with his left hand.

The young man to his right, the one who looked so fearful, actually gasped aloud and grabbed his companion’s wrist in a vise-like grip.

“What…?” the culprit asked, frowning. His friend merely jerked his head towards Draco’s arm, looking anywhere but at Draco himself. A notch or two of bravado faded from the brazen youth’s face, but he looked up and didn’t look away, for which Draco had to give him credit.

“Point number one,” Draco said, adopting a tone he’d heard his father use often, “that man-” he gestured to where Potter still sat not far away, “—saved your sorry arse and the arses of both of your companions. In point of fact, he saved the arses of literally everyone in this building, and at least he deserves more than a recycled, tacky greeting card with an inappropriate, juvenile, insulting message scrawled inside of it. At most,” Draco leaned over the table and lowered his voice, his eyes boring into the young man’s face, “he deserves your respect, you little shite, and don’t you ever, for one moment for the rest of your sorry life, forget it.”

“Oh, gods,” the man’s frightened friend whimpered. “He’s a Malfoy. You’ve insulted a Malfoy.”

Draco shot him a quick look, and hoped he was as intimidating as he was trying to be. He straightened. “And as for whether or not I’m cold-blooded,” very deliberately, he lifted his hand. “You’ll never know for certain, will you?”

Negligently, he snapped his fingers, and in the middle of the table the offending card gave a loud pop and burst into flames. All three of the young men lurched back from the soft explosion, then stared at the burning card in wonder before lifting eyes to Draco’s face.

Draco felt a hand on his shoulder, and knew who was standing behind him even before he saw the looks of embarrassment and discomfort on the faces in front of him.

“Draco,” he heard near his ear, and felt solid heat all along his back.

“Mr. Potter,” the young man who’d sent the card started to stand. Draco would never know what the expression on Potter’s face was, but the boy immediately lowered himself back to his chair, staring at the table top, looking shamed to his soul.

“Let’s go, all right?” Potter continued softly, and Draco nodded and turned when there was light pressure on his shoulder. There was someone off to his left, speaking quickly and apologizing profusely. He glanced at Potter, saw the tight jaw and hard eyes, and kept silent even as the maitre d promised to have the young men ejected, to pay their bill, anything to keep Potter from walking out of the door. His words were ignored as Potter collected their coats and left a few sickles on the table before they left without saying another word.

Once they were outside, and walking along Diagon Alley in the cold night air, Draco began to regret his impulsiveness. What if he’d been too rash, what if he’d somehow embarrassed Potter? Damning his jealousy and impulsive outburst, he crammed his hands in the pockets of his coat and desperately missed the heat of Potter’s hand around his elbow.

“I… thought I’d see you home,” Potter said, his voice gruff, “but I’m not sure…”

“That’s really not necessary,” Draco answered softly. Potter shot him a look from beneath his brows, one that Draco couldn’t interpret but he decided it was in his best interests not to argue with him. Fine, he thought with an inner sigh, if Potter was determined to be chivalrous even after the disaster at the restaurant, who was he to disagree? If it gave him another five minutes in his company, maybe the last five minutes of his attention, ever… His heart sank at the thought.

“I live not far from here, actually. Three streets over.” Potter nodded, and they continued on their way in silence.

When they arrived at his building, Draco thought that Potter would leave him at the outer door, but he didn’t. When they stepped off of the lift on the third floor, he thought that Potter would just say goodnight and ride back down again, but he didn’t. When they paused outside of his door, Draco turned to take his bag from Potter and say goodnight, and instead found his mouth occupied by the press of Potter’s lips.

To say he was stunned was the understatement of the era. So stunned in fact that he stood very stiffly for the first few moments, still holding the bag containing his mother’s crackers, blinking in bemusement. But then exactly what was happening registered, and Draco’s heart sank when Potter pulled back. That it was only long enough to remove the bag from his hand and set both of them on the floor, and then he was bracketing Draco’s face with both of his hands, his face close, his eyes on Draco’s lips, was of enormous relief.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?”

“Thank Merlin,” Draco murmured. “I don’t believe that was my best effort.”

Potter smiled slightly before he leaned in once again, and this time, Draco was ready. He opened his mouth instantly to the press of Potter’s tongue, made a sound in the back of his throat when it slithered along his. His hands lifted, one curled around Potter’s nape and the other sliding across his broad back, and when Potter took a half step forward, Draco leaned into the door and accepted the press of his hard body.

It was… perfect. The perfect kiss. Not too much tongue, just enough. Not too much pressure, just enough. Not too long. He pulled back when Draco’s lungs were just beginning to complain, and pressed his cheek against Draco’s. And Draco had his answer about his skin; it was warm, and soft, with just a hint of roughness from the dark stubble, and Draco wanted to feel that stubble… everywhere.

“I don’t believe,” Potter whispered, warm breath ghosting over Draco’s ear and going straight to a groin that was already swelling with need, “that anyone has ever stood up for me like that before.”

He leaned back and looked into Draco’s eyes, and Draco slid his gloved hand to his cheek. “I find that unconscionable,” he breathed.

“I find it sexy as hell,” Potter countered, and was then kissing him again, this time with a barely leashed passion that had Draco arching into the strength of his body. Instinctively, he let his legs slide apart to accept the press of Potter’s thigh between, and he moaned softly into the kiss when he felt the corresponding proof of Potter’s arousal hard against his hip bone. Their lips parted, and Draco knew he was panting.

“Would you care to come in?” he asked, his heart hammering in anticipation. Gods, he wanted his hands on that body, wanted Potter’s hands on his.

“I’d like to, very much,” Potter answered, and Draco immediately reached behind himself in blind search of the doorknob. “Which is exactly why I’m not going to.”

It took Draco a moment to register the words, and when he did, Potter had taken a step back but was still leaning over him, one solid arm braced against the door. Draco saw him adjust himself uncomfortably and nearly groaned aloud, until large eyes lifted to his, and the warmth in them replaced some of what had been lost when he stepped away.

“I… like you,” Potter said, searching his eyes. “Rather a lot, I think. But…” He paused, dampening his lips with his tongue.

“What?” Draco asked, his hand sliding down to press in the middle of Potter’s chest. He could feel the heart hammering under his palm. “Tell me.”

“I’ve only ever had one relationship with a man,” Potter said, looking embarrassed. “And it was an absolute disaster.” He shook his dark head. “I can’t jump in with both feet like that again, Draco. I need to… take some time, be certain…”

Draco blinked. There was a word in that explanation that he hadn’t realized he’d wanted to hear, but on hearing it, he wanted everything that it entailed. Relationship. Potter had said  _relationship_ , not ‘shag against the wall’, or ‘blowjob on the sofa’, but relationship. He wondered that he could want a thing so desperately when he’d not known he wanted it at all, and yet, he did.

“Then,” he said softly, running his palm up Potter’s chest and squeezing his shoulder, “we’ll… take some time.”

Potter’s smile was so brilliant that it almost made up for the fact that Draco knew he’d be sleeping alone that night. Almost.

oooOOOooo

Draco walked into Pansy’s house the next morning, feeling remarkably rested and relaxed for a man who  _hadn’t_  had sex the night before. He’d gotten one more, supremely executed kiss, then a warm and fuzzy mobile text message nearly an hour after Potter had left him.

“I had fun,” it said. “When can we do it again?” So, considering his right hand had been his only companion, he was in a remarkably chipper mood.

He found Pansy in her dining room and paused on the threshold, taking in the elaborate decorations that graced the huge room; the long red tapers in silver candelabra and enormous arrangements of red roses and evergreens that centered a table set to serve at least thirty. Green goblets sat at each place setting, wreaths hung at the windows and on the back of each cherry wood chair.

“Now, remember,” Pansy was saying to her house-elf, Daisy, “my mother must not be seated anywhere near my father, and Mrs. Malfoy’s first course is not to contain any cranberries. She’s dreadfully allergic. And…” She spotted Draco and smiled brilliantly. “Well, all hail the conquering hero!” She waved the little elf away and approached Draco on stiletto clad feet. “How was dinner?”

Draco frowned slightly. He’d not told Pansy anything yet…

“You made the gossip columns,” she said brightly when she saw his confusion. “Not much, just a tidbit about the two of you being seen together at Flic’s. Very nice, by the way. His choice, or yours?”

“His, actually,” Draco said, turning to look at the table once again, his lips slightly pursed. “Tonight’s the dinner party, isn’t it?”

“Don’t tell me you’d forgotten,” she said, hands going to her hips. “You did pick up the crackers…”

“Yes, yes,” Draco said quickly, heading her off before she could build up a head of steam. “Pansy,” he turned his eyes back to hers. “Have you room for another at your table this evening?”

Pansy studied him for a long moment, a smile beginning to curl across her lips. “Would this be for the Savior himself?”

Draco nodded. “It would be, indeed.”

“Going to seat the man at the same table with your mother? You are brave.”

Draco shook his head slowly. “Not brave,” he answered. “Just… determined.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Determined, is it?” Her grin ripened. “I like it. Daisy,” she called out, the elf reappeared instantly. “Please have the table set for one more, and send Micki to my study in a few minutes.” Her eyes came back to Draco. “We’ve another invitation to deliver.”


	19. Telling Mum

Draco sat on a high stool at one of the marble counters in Pansy’s elaborate kitchen, painstakingly writing the name of each of the guests for her dinner party on heavy vellum place cards. All around him a small army of house-elves swarmed, trays of food hovering over their little bat-eared heads, the scent of rib roast and mulled cider in the air. His knee bounced nervously as he wrote, and he kept glancing at the clock on the wall above the sink.

“Oh, it smells divine in here!” Pansy announced as she swept in through the doorway, towering heels clicking on the travertine floor. Draco glanced up and paused, taking in her appearance with a sweeping look.

Her gleaming mahogany hair was up in a regal French twist, and she was wearing a stunning Balenciaga bustier-style cocktail dress of burgundy velvet with a matching satin trim. Diamonds gleamed at her throat and her ears, and she looked stunning. She saw Draco eyeing her attire, and extended her arms, turning slowly.

“Yes?” she asked when she’d completed her circle, eyes bright.

“Indeed,” he answered simply, and she beamed.

She cocked her head to one side and eyed his attire with the same attention to detail, and he swiveled slightly on the stool, holding his arms out to his sides.

He’d worn Ralph Lauren black fitted wool trousers tucked into knee high leather boots, and a dark hunter and rich cranberry argyle sweater, pushed up on his forearms, with a white button down dress shirt and hunter green tie beneath. He looked good; he knew it. But Pansy’s approval was always necessary.

“Very nice,” she said with a slight smile. “I do wonder about the boots, though. Planning on riding later, are we?” Her eyes sparkled wickedly, and he smirked.

“With any luck at all,” he answered and she laughed, coming to stand near his shoulder.

“Spoken to mummy yet?” she asked more softly. Draco sighed and shook his head slightly.

“At this point my bravado has fled, and I begin to wonder if I need my head examined.”

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You know, darling, Narcissa has only ever wanted what would make you happy. If he’ll make you happy…”

“Completely disregarding the whole ‘he killed the lunatic that my father worshipped’ aspect of the thing.” His tone was wry. He’d had an entire afternoon to mull his current course; just because he wanted a thing, didn’t mean he could have it. He knew that only too well.

Pansy squeezed his shoulder. “She might surprise you and be delighted, you know.”

A tray of miniature plum puddings festively decorated with sprigs of variegated holly and red berries floated by, and he gestured to them with his head. “I think it more likely I’ll be boiled in plum pudding and buried with a stake of holly through my heart.”

She laughed, but it faded when he didn’t join her. “Darling, what is it?” she asked, stepping closer, her fingers tightening on his shoulder again. “You’re so tense…”

He sighed and looked down. “Pansy, have you ever wanted a thing so much that you can literally taste it, but suddenly be quite certain that karma is very real, and not just a theory?”

She slipped her arm around his shoulder and placed a soft kiss near his temple. “Yes, love,” she murmured. “But just remember; you didn’t do anything so very terrible.” He shot her a look. “You didn’t! You did what you had to do, and he of all people should understand that.”

Draco inhaled and exhaled slowly. “He said almost the same thing to me, actually.”

“Well, there you go then. Stop fretting. You’ll get wrinkles. You need to lasso the man before your looks go.”

He rolled his eyes, but a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “My champion,” he drawled.

“Always,” she answered brightly, just as the doorbell chimed. “And, we’re off. Do give those to Daisy love, and come help me man the bar.”

Draco did as she asked and greeted Pansy’s guests, offering drinks, pouring wine. He looked up at the door each time it opened, but for the first quarter of an hour it was neither of the people he most wanted to see. Finally, just as he was delivering a white wine spritzer to Pansy’s mother, he heard the smooth, sophisticated sound of his own mother’s voice. She was resplendent in ice blue robes, her hair in an artful crown of braids, and she smiled at him in delight as he came to her.

“Mother,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You look lovely.” The scent of her floral perfume filled his head, and he closed his eyes as she embraced him.

“Hello, my love,” she smiled, leaning back. “Allow me to return the compliment. You look very handsome.”

“Thank you.” He smiled tightly. “I’m acting as bartender. Can I get you anything to drink?”

She paused, her hand tightening on his arm when he offered it to her. His eyes lifted to hers, and he saw that one of her graceful brows was arched. “You’re nervous,” she whispered. “Would you care to tell me why?”

“Am I always going to be an open book?” he sighed.

“Only to me. Now, tell me.”

He took her arm and pulled her out of the entryway as another group of guests arrived behind them, and led her into the short hallway that led to Pansy’s sitting room. Draco paused, and took a deep breath.

“There’s someone who’s going to be here tonight,” he began, sounding hesitant. “Someone, well…”

“Special?” Narcissa’s eyes were shining, and a small half-smile pulled at the corner of her lips.

“Yes,” he sighed. “Extremely. At least, I hope so…”

That mobile brow arched again. “Is he blind? One look at you should do the trick.”

“You’re a bit biased.”

“Perhaps.” She cocked her head to one side as she studied him. “But I also have exquisite taste, which, I might add, I passed on to you. Therefore, I can only assume that this young man is worth having.”

“Very much so,” Draco said emphatically.

“Do I know him?”

He stared into her inquisitive face, and found he couldn’t just… say it.

“You’ve met, I believe,” he said, damning himself for a coward. “It’s just that…” he paused, took another deep breath. “He… was on the other side, Mother. During the war.”

“Darling, most anyone with an ounce of sense was on ‘the other side’ during the war. I’d be far more concerned if you were pining after some junior Death Eater.”

“No chance of that,” he mumbled under his breath. She looked over his shoulder, and her smile widened in delight.

“Oh, there’s Miranda Melford! I haven’t seen her in an age.” She began to walk away, and Draco was about to sag a bit at having dodged the initial round of gunfire, when she turned back. “You will be sure to re-introduce me when he arrives?”

He nodded weakly, and she floated away on a cloud of gardenias.

As luck would have it, Potter was one of the last people to arrive. It was odd, really, how Draco knew that he’d entered the room. He… felt him. It was the strangest thing. He was pouring out a double scotch for Pansy’s father, who seemed bound and determined to be in his cups before they even approached the dining room, and the hair on the back of his neck seemed to lift as a chill skirted across his shoulders, and he looked up to find himself pinned in place under a steady, verdant gaze.

There had been a ripple in the conversation around the room as the other guests realized who had joined them. Pansy’s gatherings were always very mixed affairs; people with former associations with a now unmentioned madman often sat at the same table with the upper echelon politicians at the Ministry. It wasn’t so very unusual, honestly, that the Chief Auror might be on her guest list. It was considered extremely unusual, however, that the man might actually accept the invitation. And yet, there he was, and the sight of him sent a wave of heat over Draco that went the length of his frame.

Potter looked… amazing. There was no other word. He was dressed very simply, actually, in unrelieved black from his head to his toes. Black fitted slacks, black knit turtleneck, black wool blazer, and yet he stood alone as the most handsome man in the room. His hair had been tamed into a semblance of order, he wore simple black dress shoes and a slender black belt, and Draco could scarcely swallow, he was so struck by him. Suddenly grateful for the bar that blocked him from the waist down, and damning the impulse that had made him think that the snug black woolen slacks he was wearing were a good idea, he smiled tentatively at the man across the room.

Potter made his way to him, shaking the occasional hand, nodding at greetings. Draco managed not to spill the scotch and hand Pansy’s father his drink, but it was a near thing. Almost before he could brace himself, Potter was standing on the other side of the bar not two feet away, smiling softly.

“Potter!” the elder Parkinson said in surprise when he turned to see who had come up beside him. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Potter blinked and turned to look at him.

“He’s here because I invited him, Daddy.” Pansy arrived advantageously at that moment and swooped in, linking her arm with her fathers. “I sold him a house recently, and we’ve become quite good friends. I hope?” She met Potter’s eyes with a slight half-smile, and he responded by leaning in and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Quite good, yes.”

“I’ll be damned,” Parkinson muttered.

“No doubt,” Pansy said under her breath, and Potter’s smile widened. “Do come along, daddy. I want to show you our wonderful tree. In fact,” she announced to the room at large, “I want everyone to come with me and see Ryan’s magnificent tree. Oh, not you,” she said when Potter made to follow her. “You’ve seen it. You stay here, get a drink.” She shot Draco a meaningful look, then herded the rest of her guests from the room.

Silence fell in their wake. After a moment, Potter looked at Draco, smiling slightly. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being managed?”

Draco shrugged one shoulder, but he knew color filled his cheeks. “She doesn’t mean anything…” His voice trailed off when Potter stepped casually around the bar, stopping very close to his side.

“I didn’t say I minded,” he murmured, taking another half step closer until he was close against Draco’s side. Draco could have sworn he felt it, almost like a caress, when Potter’s eyes moved over him from his head to his toes and back again. “You look amazing,” he said, his voice deepening.

“So do you,” Draco answered, breathless.

“I’ve thought about you today.” Potter stepped closer, until he was right against Draco’s side. Draco inhaled slowly, and Potter’s cologne, something dark and spicy, made his head swim and his pants tighten. "In fact, I've been able to think of little else."

“I’ve thought about you, too,” Draco murmured, letting his eyes drift closed when he felt Potter lean in closer yet and run the tip of his nose along the line of his jaw.

“When the invitation arrived, I knew you must have been behind it.”

“I wasn’t certain you’d come.” Draco let his eyes drift closed when Potter’s lips brushed his ear.

“I’m only here because I knew that you would be, and I needed to see you.” Potter’s hand came to rest on the small of his back, then slid lower to caress the curve of his arse, and Draco shivered at the goosebumps that accompanied the touch. “You’ve the most amazing arse,” Potter said against his skin, his breath hot, and Draco turned his face instinctively into that heat…

The sound of a throat clearing was startling enough, but looking up to find oneself in that particular situation while under the watchful eyes of one’s mother was a bit like being doused with ice water. He felt Potter stiffen even as his hand dropped away.

Narcissa stood inside of the doorway, a bemused expression on her face. Neither man drew breath while she studied them. Finally, she strode forward smoothly, extending her right hand. Draco was relieved to see that there wasn’t a wand in it.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice like honey. “It’s been rather a long time.”

Potter accepted her hand, and Draco began to breathe.


	20. Secrets Out

Harry was lying in bed with his hands stacked behind his head when his mobile began to buzz on the nightstand. He lunged for it and his glasses at the same time, slipping them onto his nose, and flipping open the phone.

“ _Home_ ,” he read. “ _Bollocks still attached_.”

Grinning and using primarily his thumbs, he typed faster than he thought possible. “So, she’s not going to have me abducted and murdered in my sleep?” he answered, and waited, lying back against the pillow but holding the open phone in his hands.

“ _No_ ,” came the answer. “ _My mother is nothing if not pragmatic, and she knows the Manor would be the first place they’d search for the body.”_

Harry chuckled as he answered. “I can’t tell you how reassuring I find that.” He sent that message off before typing in another. “I didn’t intend to embarrass you.” He hit the send button, and then waited, scarcely breathing. He didn’t have to wait long.

_“You didn’t embarrass me.”_

He’d not known how tense he was until his shoulders relaxed on a deeply indrawn breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the small device buzzed again in his hand.

_“The only thing unfortunate about it was her timing. I rather wish she’d waited five minutes.”_

Harry felt a surge of heat rush over his chest as he recalled what they’d been doing when Narcissa Malfoy had made her presence known. Well, truth be told, what he’d been doing. “Perhaps it’s a good thing she didn’t,” he typed, mouth tipped up wryly. “It might have been a whole lot more embarrassing than it was.”

He didn’t have long to wait for a response.  _“Really? And why is_   _that?”_

One of Harry’s brows shot up. “I think you can figure that out.”

_“Maybe I want you to tell me.”_

Harry inhaled sharply, surprised by the desire generated by that one, type-written sentence. He pondered for a moment before he answered. “Tell you what?” he typed. “That in five minutes, having just my hand on your arse wouldn’t have been enough?”

He waited a bit longer for the response this time, and began to be afraid that perhaps he’d gone too far when the phone buzzed again.

_“It wouldn’t have been enough for me, either.”_ Harry swallowed heavily.  _“I wanted… more.”_

Harry went very still, debating between teasing and the truth. He opted for truth. “So did I.” He took a deep breath, shifting uncomfortably beneath his bedding. “And we have to stop this now.”

_“And why is that?”_

Harry’s eyes narrowed, but his lips curled up again. “Because if we don’t, I’ll never get to sleep, you bloody tease.”

_“Not teasing.”_

Harry stifled a groan. “Draco…” He typed back.

_“Yes, Harry?”_

“Good night.”

_“Spoil sport.”_

“I’ll be thinking about you.”

_“Dream about me, instead.”_

Harry smiled slightly. “Oh, I think that’s a given.”

_“Naughty dreams?”_

“Stop it.”

_“Kill joy. Fine.”_

Harry laughed again, paused, then typed; “Can you meet me tomorrow? About ten? We’ll have coffee.” This time, the response was almost instantaneous.

_“Where?”_

His smile widened. “Trewitt’s Bakery, you know it?”

_“Yes.”_ There was a pause.  _“Good night, then.”_

“Sleep well.” He wrote back. “Sweet dreams.”

_“No, naughty ones.”_

Harry laughed aloud. “Good night, Draco.”

_“’Night, Harry.”_

He closed the phone and set it and his glasses back on the nightstand, still grinning. It was a long time before he was able to go to sleep, and even then, he had very naughty dreams.

oooOOOooo

When Harry pushed into the warm, fragrant bakery from the street at exactly two minutes to ten, he was gratified to see that Draco was already seated at a table near the window, and looked like he’d been waiting for a while. He was wearing an off-white cable knit jumper and denims, and a black wool coat and ivory scarf were laying over another chair. His hair was artfully mussed, and he looked up as Harry approached.  His color was high and his eyes were bright, and his lips parted in a smile of welcome.

“Hello,” Harry said as he approached the table, unwinding his dark scarf from around his throat. He desperately wanted to press a kiss to those full lips, but he let his fingers trail over a square shoulder instead.

“Hello,” Draco replied, a pert look accompanying the words.

Harry unbuttoned his coat, slipping it from his shoulders and laying it on top of Draco’s. It was both gratifying and arousing the heated way Draco’s eyes moved over his dark slacks and long-sleeved, fitted shirt. He took the seat opposite him at the small table, and a waitress approached almost immediately.

Once coffee and scones with clotted cream had been ordered, Draco smiled at him slowly. “You look… well-rested,” he said, a quirk lifting the corner of his lips.

“No thanks to you, you tease.” Harry shot him a look, but it ended in a smile.

Draco shrugged, but his eyes were dancing. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

“Keeping me up nights is what you’ve got to do?” Harry countered. Draco shot him a look that had Harry feeling his face heat when he realized what he’d said.

“Honestly, Potter. You can’t give me openings like that, and then expect me to behave myself.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied.

Draco fleetingly touched the back of Harry’s hand, and Harry felt it all of the way into his shoulder. “Pansy tells me you’re spending your first night at your house tonight.”

Harry nodded, still catching his breath from the surprising rush at that light touch. “I suppose it should say something that I was able to move in about three hours,” he said, shrugging slightly. “The kitchen will take a while to get set up the way I want, but I’m not in a rush. And the bedroom set is being delivered this evening.” He grinned. “The furniture store is throwing in the bedding that was on the floor model, which is just as well. I’m helpless at decorating.”

“I could help you pick out a few things, if you’d like,” Draco offered casually.

“I would,” Harry said, sliding his hand across the table, index finger brushing Draco’s wrist. “I’ll bet you have excellent taste.”

Draco’s expression ripened at the touch of Harry’s finger on his skin. “So my mother tells me.”

Harry allowed his finger to curl over the top of Draco’s wrist and he rubbed over the fair skin between the end of his sleeve and his hand. Just that slight touch seemed almost electric to him. “Speaking of your mother,” he said, lowering his voice. “I was a little concerned when she asked you to take her home last night.”

Draco was staring at Harry’s finger, but he answered unhesitatingly. “She just wanted to make sure that I knew what I was getting into.”

“And, do you?” Harry asked, his eyes on Draco’s face. “Know what you’re getting into?”

Draco’s gaze lifted to his, and his eyes were shining softly. “I know what I’d  _like_  for it to be,” he answered. “The rest, I think, is up to you.”  
  
Their coffee and scones arrived then, and they lapsed into comfortable conversation between chewing and swallowing.

Unfortunately Harry had to go back to the Ministry for a few hours and Draco had to pick up some documents for Pansy, so their rendezvous was a short one. They were waiting for the cashier to make Harry’s change before heading their separate ways when Harry spotted a row of elaborate gingerbread houses in the front window. He leaned in and studied them with a soft smile on his face.

“You like gingerbread?” Draco asked, bumping his shoulder gently into Harry’s. When Harry looked at him in question, Draco smirked. “You look like a five-year-old with his nose pressed against the window.”

Harry’s grin turned sheepish. “I’ve always liked them,” he admitted. “When I was little, they seemed charmed to me, magical somehow.” He shrugged before taking a step away. “I thought anyone who lived in a house like that must be happy, and I wanted that.” Suddenly thinking he’d revealed more about himself that he’d wanted to, Harry was relieved when the cashier handed him his change before anything else could be said on the subject.

When they were outside of the small store in the brisk wind, Harry caught Draco’s hand in his. “Can I call you later?”

Draco turned his body towards him and smiled in amusement. “I’m astounded that you still think you have to ask.”

Harry took a step closer. “I’ll always ask.”

One fair brow arched. “What would you do if I said no?”

Harry shrugged. “Oh, I’d call anyway. I figure you’d answer out of sheer curiosity.”

Now Draco grinned. “Spoken like a true Gryffindor. One part bravado and nine parts pure dumb luck.”

Harry laughed, and then without thinking about the fact that they were on a crowded sidewalk just before noon, he brushed his lips over Draco’s cheek and found it cold. “Get out of the wind,” he said, pausing to lift Draco’s collar around his chin. “You’ll end up sick, and I have plans for you.” He gave him one more fleeting smile before turning away.

He was half way back to the Ministry before he even thought about the fact that he’d kissed the man in public, and even so, he was grinning.

oooOOOooo

He’d just come out of a meeting with several of his top Aurors late that afternoon and was heading back into his own office when he saw a small crowd gathered around the door. Pausing behind them to clear his throat, they all turned and on seeing who it was, immediately parted to allow him to pass. Inside, he saw Lea standing with her arms crossed, but it was what was sitting in the center of the blotter on his desk that brought him up short.

Nearly as tall as he was and perfect in every detail was a gingerbread replica of his house, complete with chimneys and porch and gables. The windows glowed a warm gold, and as he watched tiny enchanted snowflakes began to drift onto the roof and a slender curl of smoke lifted from the marzipan chimney. He stepped closer and saw that the snowman was there under the arbor and the sled was leaning against the hedge, and in the front window of the living room, the lights on the miniature tree began to shine. It was his house, down to the wreath on the front door and the snow on the roof, and he could only stare in wonder.

“This came with it.”

He looked up to find Lea watching him, her hand extended. In it was an envelope with distinctive writing across the face, and he blinked when he saw it.

“Aren’t you going to take it?” She asked. He took a deep breath and took it from her hand.

His hands were trembling slightly when he opened the flap and pulled the card from the inside. He swallowed heavily before he turned it over and read what was written on it.

“Be happy, Harry.” It read. “Merry Christmas.”

Harry stared at the words even as they blurred, and he blinked quickly to clear his vision.

“You have a secret admirer,” Lea said, staring at the house with a wistful smile.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “Not so secret any more.”


	21. Cookies for Santa

“Darling, do sit. You’re going to wear a stripe in my rug, and it’s worth more than you are.”

Draco shot Pansy an evil look, but flopped into one of the armchairs facing the desk in her office. She huffed.

“And sit, Draco. Don’t fall into the furniture. You’re thin, but you could still do some damage, and everything in here is an antique.”

“Gods, you’re a nag,” Draco muttered around his thumbnail. He’d been teasing with the idea of gnawing on it for nearly an hour. Had his manicure not cost so much, he might have.

“And you are driving me insane.” Pansy slapped her quill down on her desk and fixed him with a steady glare. “Darling, I love you more than my luggage, but you are one of the great drama queens of all time.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “I am not!”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please! Pacing, sighing, pretending to gnaw your nails. Honestly! If you’re that concerned about the man’s reaction to your little gifts, call him!”

“I can’t call him,” he retorted, outraged. “I sent the card; the balls in his court.”

“Whatever does that mean?” She frowned. He thought about it for a moment.

“No earthly idea,” he answered. “I think it’s a Muggle saying having something to do with traffic. No, wait, that’s go play on the expressway. I don’t know; I can’t keep them straight.”

Her lips quirked. “Yes, I’m sure that would be a challenge for you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, har har. You’re hilarious.”

At that moment, a series of chimes sounded from his mobile and he jerked upright, yanking it out of his pocket. Even Pansy leaned forward, her arms crossed on her desk, waiting. Draco flipped it open, and in the center of the small screen was one word; Potter. He drew an unsteady breath and looked up at her.

“Just read it, darling,” she said more gently than anything she’d said to him all afternoon. “You won’t know until you do.”

He swallowed heavily, nodded, and pressed the ‘OK’ button. Instantly, words flashed on the screen.

_“I need to see you.”_

Draco hesitated for a moment, then typed a one word response.

“When?”

The answer was almost instantaneous.  _“Now. At the house.”_

Again, he hesitated, then typed. “All right; I’ll come right over.”

When there was no further response, he flipped the phone closed and stared, unseeing, across the room.

“Draco?” he looked up and found Pansy watching him, concern on her pretty face. Silently, he handed her the phone.

She read the messages with a slight line between her brows, then looked up at him. “Well, he didn’t tell you to go fuck yourself,” she mused. “That’s a positive.”

“Maybe he’s waiting to do it in person,” he said, apprehensive.

“Maybe he isn’t going to do it at all,” she responded. “Go. Find out. It can’t be any worse than sitting here and stewing.”

“It can’t?” he said dryly. “He can’t hex me from here.”

“He isn’t going to hex you,” she scoffed. “Go on. And call me later.”

He rose from the chair and left the room, his thumbnail back between his teeth.

oooOOOooo

He’d donned his hat and his coat, paused before a mirror in Pansy’s entryway to adjust both, slowly wrapped his scarf around his throat and tucked the ends under his collar. In short, he stalled. When even he couldn’t come up with any further excuses for why he didn’t just go, he stepped out onto Pansy’s front porch, and Apparated onto the drive that led to Potter’s house. He paused, staring at the idyllic picture it made; windows glowing in the late afternoon light, smoke curling from the chimney. It looked like the house he’d had made of gingerbread, and as he walked the last fifty feet to the porch steps, he hoped he hadn’t ruined everything with the impulsive gifts and the revelations of the afternoon.

He’d just started up the steps when the front door opened and Potter stepped out, closing the door behind him. He was wearing the dark slacks and fitted grey shirt from earlier, and his eyes were wide behind his glasses, but his expression gave away nothing. Draco hesitated, then swallowed his nerves and climbed the rest of the steps until he was standing in front of Potter, his hands in the pockets of his coat. For several seconds, neither moved, nor spoke.

Draco was frantically searching his mind for something to say when Potter took a step away from the door, lifted his hands and cupped Draco’s cheeks in his palms. His hands were warm on Draco’s chilled skin, and his eyes heated just before his long lashes fluttered closed over them and he leaned in and covered Draco’s mouth with his own.

Draco’s eyes stayed open for a moment longer in surprise, but then Potter’s lips were moving on his, and a rush of relief that was so strong that it made his knees feel weak washed over him in a dizzying rush. He struggled in vain to get his hands out of his pockets even as he opened his mouth and angled his head, wanting the connection to deepen, lengthen; wanting to stand there with Potter’s mouth moving on his forever. Potter’s arms slipped around him, holding him close even as Draco’s hands stayed trapped in his pockets, but suddenly, he didn’t care. It was enough to be held in those arms, against that hard chest. Enough to taste Potter’s taste in his mouth; spicy and sweet and  _Potter._ It was enough to know that, whatever Potter thought about the gifts, he still wanted  _him_. When Potter finally pulled back from the kiss, Draco’s lips felt thoroughly massaged and slightly swollen, and he let his head fall forward, his forehead against Potter’s throat.

“I was afraid you’d think I was some weird stalker, or something,” he muttered.

Potter chuckled, and Draco felt the reverberations against his chest.

“I think you’re many things, Draco Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice soft, deep, and it moved over Draco like a caress. “But ‘weird stalker’ isn’t on the list.”

At that moment, there was the thud of something falling inside the house, followed almost instantly by a shout.

“Harry!” a high-pitched voice called. “Where are you?” Potter turned his head towards the door.

“I’ll be right there, Ted. Pick up whatever you dropped.” His eyes came back to Draco’s, and there was both regret and resignation in them. “I had other things in mind for tonight,” he murmured, his hands sliding up and down Draco’s arms. “But Andromeda flooed and asked if I could take Teddy. She’s not feeling well. I told him we’d make cookies.” There was another crash inside, and Harry chuckled wearily. “If he doesn’t demolish my kitchen.” He turned his head once more. “Ted,” he called emphatically. “Wait for me.”

“Fine,” the high pitched voice replied with a huff, and this time Draco felt a smile tug at his lips.

“You should go, then,” he said softly, but he didn’t step away from Potter’s solid frame. Potter didn’t move, either.

“Yeah, I probably should.” But he continued to study Draco’s face. Slowly, the corner of his lips lifted in a slight smile. “You know, if I’d known Santa was as hot as this, I might have started being nice a long time ago.”

Draco felt warmth trickle over him even as a smirk pulled at his lips. “But Santa doesn’t want you to be nice, necessarily.” He licked his lips, and saw Potter’s eyes drop to his mouth. He curled it seductively. “Now, good… that’s a totally different thing.”

Potter’s eyes went half-lidded, and he took a step closer. Draco felt the solid warmth of him, and caught his breath when Potter’s hands tightened around his elbows and he pulled him into his body, angling his hips forward. There were too many layers between them for him to really feel anything other than a maddening press on his own burgeoning erection, and he returned the pressure instinctively in response. Potter’s eyes rolled closed and his lips parted. “Good,” he paused, caught his breath. “Good I think I can manage.” He moved quickly then, catching Draco’s nape in his hand, angling his head and kissing him again, hard, mouth open, tongue searching. Draco responded, leaning into it, giving himself over to it. He’d never kissed anyone who kissed quite like Potter did; with his mouth, yes, but also with the whole of himself. It was like being caught in a wave of sensation, lifted by it, carried on it in a slow, seductive rhythm. Potter’s head changed direction, his hands moving over Draco’s back, dropping to his arse, palms filling with the curves of him to pull him in more firmly against his body, and Draco sighed into his open mouth.

“Harry!”

Potter jerked, his mouth coming free of Draco’s, and he groaned. “Fuck!” he hissed.

Draco pressed his forehead against Potter’s chin and began to chuckle slightly. “Apparently not,” he managed, and felt Potter’s responding soft laughter.

“If I leave him alone in there much longer, there’s no telling what will happen.”

“No, you need to go,” Draco said, forcing himself to take a shaky step away. Potter’s hands dropped away from his body regretfully.

“I’ll be in touch later.” His eyes were warm, and Draco was gratified by the need in them. He nodded.

“Have fun,” he said with a fleeting smile and Apparated away.

oooOOOooo

Draco was seated in his small living room later that night, trying to concentrate on the book that he held in his hands, but his mind kept going back to those few minutes on Potter’s porch. He was drifting pleasantly through the kisses once again, his eyes vaguely on his fireplace, when in the middle of his coffee table there was a slight disturbance in the air. Suddenly very alert, Draco reached for his wand as a small funnel cloud of what looked like silver glitter appeared, swirling on itself, and he could swear he heard the soft sound of tinkling bells. He watched as the glitter became more solid and took on a shape; several shapes, actually, swirling tiny clouds of glittering red and green. After several moments, the shapes settled and the glitter vanished, and sitting on the black lacquer table top was a white china plate on which were several bright, festively decorated Christmas cookies; stars, trees, wreaths, covered in sparkling sugar and thick with icing. Next to the plate was a glass with a red snowflake pattern, filled with what was surely milk, and tucked under the plate was a note.

Smiling in bemusement, Draco leaned forward and slipped the note free. In bold, strong hand someone had written; Cookies for Santa, and Draco laughed. He flipped the note over, and saw that there was more writing on the back. He read the words, his smile deepening.

Have you time in your busy Christmas Eve schedule for me? Harry.

Draco picked up a cookie shaped like a wreath and studied the candies painstakingly placed on its surface. “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “I think so.”


	22. A One Horse Open Sleigh

Potter was being very mysterious.

He’d sent Draco two text messages during the day; once to tell him to meet him at Pansy’s at four, and the second time to tell him to dress warm. So he found himself, at five minutes to four, standing next to Pansy on her front porch, wearing his fur hat, matching coat and scarf, and watching fluffy white flakes float lazily from the steel grey sky as he moved his booted feet in an attempt to stay warm. Pansy stood beside him wearing a black velvet cape, and scowling.

“Why am I out here?” she asked for the tenth time.

“Because you are my dearest friend,” Draco responded. “And you are keeping me company.”

“And why is it again that I can’t keep you company inside of the house, where it’s warm?”

“Because I want to wait out here,” Draco replied. “I don’t know what Potter is up to, but he’s up to something, Pans. Whatever it is, I want to be on the look out. Besides, I couldn’t sit still if I tried.”

“You,” she said, shooting him a dark look, “are the most irritating man alive, and I’ve no earthly idea why I put up with you. Draco, it’s snowing, and it’s cold, and we could be sitting in front of a fire, looking out the window…”

Her voice trailed off, and she frowned, looking down the lane that led to the main road. Draco stared at her, then he heard something, too, and his eyes followed the direction of hers.

“Is that…?” she murmured, turning her face, a slight smile pulling at her lips.

“He didn’t,” Draco said, straightening. “The bloody man didn’t…”

Pansy began to laugh lightly when the sound grew louder, and was unmistakably sleigh bells, ringing on the crisp air.

“If it’s pulled by reindeer, I may just have to kiss him,” she giggled, and they both moved towards the steps.

Draco stepped onto the crunchy snow of the drive and turned toward a line of trees that blocked the main road, his heart in his throat. After a moment, around the curve of the lane a white horse came into view, proud head high, red leather harness across its broad chest, golden bells bouncing and ringing merrily.It was pulling a shining red sleigh, and the driver sat on a high seat, dressed head to foot in Victorian clothing, complete with stove pipe hat. He pulled the open sleigh to a neat stop right at the bottom of the steps with a spray of fine white powder, and from the wide passenger compartment behind the drivers seat Potter stood up, wearing a black double breasted full length wool coat, a red scarf tucked around his throat that was a near match for his cheeks, and a hat very like the one the driver was wearing. He hopped down onto the snowy drive and swept the hat from his head, executing a perfect deep, courtly bow. Pansy began to laugh merrily.

“Santa, your sleigh.” He straightened with a cheeky smile and popped the hat back onto his disheveled hair. 

Draco shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.”

Pansy smacked his arm. “He’s a romantic,” she scolded, then sent Potter a melting smile. “And if you ever decide to give up cock and go back to girlie bits, Potter, I may have to leave Hunter.”

“Oh, charming,” Draco drawled, but Potter laughed and bowed in her direction with a theatrical sweep of the hat.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said with a broad wink, replacing his hat once again. “But for now…” he offered Draco his gloved hand. “Your chariot, sir.”

Draco stared at the hand, unable to fight the grin that rose to his lips, and he slipped his fingers around Potter’s palm. Potter’s smile softened and he pulled Draco towards the sleigh. “We’ll freeze,” Draco said without real complaint.

“There’s a fur lap blanket,” Potter answered. His voice dropped and his gaze mellowed. “And we’ll keep one another warm.”

Draco met that gaze, and let his smile bloom.

Potter handed him up into the sleigh, then joined him, pulling a dark fur blanket aside for him to sit, then spreading it over his lap before sliding into place beside him. The seat was quite wide, but Potter sat right next to him, their thighs pressed together. Draco felt warmth begin to spread through him instantly.

“You boys behave,” Pansy called out, smile wide.

“Now, where’s the fun in that?” Potter asked brightly. She laughed.

“Ready, gentlemen?” The driver turned on his seat and asked solicitously.

“Ready, Marcus,” Potter answered. The man nodded, then turned back and lifted the reigns, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The sleigh jerked, then began to move.

“Details, Draco,” Pansy called after them. “I demand details.”

“Piss off, Pansy!” he called back, waving jauntily. Potter laughed at his side.

The wind that brushed their cheeks was cold, and the snow fell steadily, and yet the whole thing was so utterly enchanted that Draco couldn’t care. Potter lifted his arm around his shoulders, and Draco settled in against his solid side, and thought he’d probably never enjoyed anything as much as the thrill of the sleigh moving over the snow, and this man against him.

“Where are we going?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t too close.

“The house,” Potter answered. “For dinner. It’s only about four miles through the woods. It took about half an hour. “

“You’ve been out in this for half an hour?” he asked, turning his head and looking up into Potter’s face, noting the red tinged cheeks and bright green eyes. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Not anymore,” Potter answered, turning his head so that their eyes could meet. He studied Draco’s face for a long moment. “Can I ask you something?” Draco paused, then nodded. “What made you think of it?” Draco frowned slightly. “The gifts; what brought that on?”

Draco felt his cheeks fill with color that had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold. “Promise you won’t be irritated?”

Potter smiled. “I won’t be.”

“I was eavesdropping,” Draco answered. “Shamelessly.” Potter’s brow creased in confusion. “You know the small video store off of Mayfair, the one with the vintage films?” Potter nodded. “Do you remember being in there, oh, about the first of December?” Potter looked as if he were trying to remember. “With Weasley?”

Potter’s angled his head to one side as his eyes cleared. “The DVD,” he mused softly.

“The DVD,” Draco agreed. “I admit to picking it up to see what it was about after you’d left. You seemed so irritated, and he was so full of himself…”

Potter nodded thoughtfully. “That doesn’t explain the gifts, though.”

Draco met his gaze unflinchingly. “You looked miserable,” he said. “And honestly, up until that moment, I didn’t even know that you might be interested in a boyfriend at all.” Potter nodded thoughtfully. “If we’re going to be brutally honest, here…” Draco said, then paused.

“Please,” Potter prodded softly.

“All right.” He lifted his chin. “I think it’s safe to say that I’ve had… feelings about you for a long time. Even some that didn’t involve turning you into something nasty.” Potter’s lips quirked. “It seemed fortuitous, overhearing that conversation. And I thought you might…” He paused.

“You thought I might, what?”

“I thought you might like to know that someone was thinking about you, and that they cared enough to send you things, even small things.” He slipped his hand under the lap robe and slid it onto Potter’s leg. “I thought that, maybe, after I’d sent the gifts you might be willing to see me as something other than that prat you went through school with. Then, we ran into one another, and it all seemed to fall into place,” he paused again. “I didn’t plan that part, Potter. That really was an accident.”

“I believe you,” Potter murmured. “I nearly knocked you over.”

"And I wasn’t sorry,” Draco went on. “But then, I didn’t really know how to explain that I’d been the one sending the gifts. Until yesterday, when you were looking at the gingerbread houses.” He smirked slightly. “I was afraid I’d gone overboard from the moment I left the bakery.”

“No, it was perfect,” Potter said warmly. “Absolutely perfect.” His eyes moved over Draco’s face, and Draco felt it like a caress. “And, in the interests of complete honesty,” His voice dropped and took on that rich chocolate quality that made Draco want to indulge in too many sweets, “I haven’t thought about you as that prat I went through school with in… a very long time.” His eyes settled on Draco’s mouth, and he leaned closer.

”I’m glad,” Draco breathed. “I doubt we’d be where we are now if you still did.”

“Probably not,” Potter agreed. “But, can I tell you a secret?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered, eyes wide.

“I’ve wanted to do this since sixth year,” Potter murmured, and then kissed him gently.

Draco scarcely had time to process the amazing words. Potter was patient, thorough, but the very meticulousness with which he kissed Draco made it impossible for him to think beyond the pounding of his heart and the swelling cock in his trousers. There was too much else to process; the skilled lips, the soft breath, the tongue that never felt invasive and tasted faintly of peppermint and gingerbread. The scent of spicy cologne and the heat of the chest pressing against his arm. Draco shifted in the seat when Potter pulled him closer, turning so that their chests were together and lifting his hand from Potters leg to slide it around his side. Potter pulled back for just a moment, using his teeth to pull his glove from his fingers, then slipped his hand under the fur and Draco felt his fingers deftly opening the buttons down the front of his coat. When he slid his hand inside and pressed it over Draco’s flat stomach and the heat of it penetrated through the jumper to the skin beneath, Draco made a soft sound of pleasure.

Potter’s lips slid from his mouth, over the curve of his jaw, and Draco let his head loll to the side. Potter eased his scarf down with his chin and settled his lips just below Draco’s ear, teeth nibbling before his tongue touched the heated skin. His hand slid down, teasing along the line of Draco’s trousers before dropping lower. Draco shifted restlessly, legs spreading slightly, hips lifting, and Potter understood the unspoken need. His palm flattened over the smooth bulge of Draco’s confined cock and he hissed between his teeth.

“Potter,” he wheezed.

“Shhh,” Potter said soothingly, lips nibbling his ear lobe. “I’ll take care of you.”

And then his lips were back on Draco’s, and he was kissing him with slow, heated intensity, tongue slowly moving into his mouth and withdrawing in a rhythm that made Draco lift his hips again. With a squeeze, the warm palm slid lower still, heel of his hand and wrist caressing Draco’s cock as deft fingers pressed in just behind the soft pouch of his balls, and he shuddered, a spike of sensation shooting through his pelvis. His hand caught Potter’s bicep and curled into the wool, hanging on for dear life. Even as Draco felt that coming in his pants was a terrifyingly real possibility, Potter placed his lips against the shell of his ear.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, and Draco could only sigh, and nod.


	23. Packages and Peppermint

When the sleigh pulled to a stop in front of Potter’s house, Draco was nearly panting with need and hard as a rock. Potter withdrew his hand from inside of his coat, and buttoned him up carefully, but Draco saw the tremor in the bare hand and was glad he wasn’t the only one affected. Standing was somewhat uncomfortable, stepping down from the sleigh was as well, and he crossed his arms and waited while Potter thanked the driver and paid him. The man seemed like he wanted to make small talk, but divine providence intervened and it began to snow quite hard.

“Well, better get the old girl out of the weather,” he called cheerily. “Thanks again, Mr. Potter. And Merry Christmas!” He snapped the reigns smartly over the mares back, and she moved off down the lane in a whoosh of rails on snow and the merry ringing of the bells.

Potter took his arm, and they climbed the steps to the front door together. The enchanted lights twinkled along the roofline, and the wreath on the door was full and fragrant, and all Draco could think was that if they didn’t get in the house and finally get down to business, he might spontaneously combust right there on the porch.

Potter opened the door, and gestured Draco inside.

The door was scarcely closed behind him when Draco launched himself at Potter, arms locked around his neck, mouth open over his. His top hat tumbled, unnoticed, to the hardwood floor, and Potter made a slightly surprised sound when his back encountered the inside of the front door, but he recovered quickly, his mouth opening to the slide of Draco’s tongue.

Immediately, Draco’s gloved hands went to the buttons of Potter’s coat and he opened it as quickly as his covered fingers would allow, pushing it off of broad shoulders to pool around Potter’s feet. Getting into the swing of the thing, Potter pulled back long enough to yank off his other glove, and then he was opening Draco’s coat as well, pushing it from Draco’s body, allowing it to slide to the floor. Draco reached for the hem of Potter’s sweater, but Potter grabbed his hands instead. Draco was going to protest until he realized that Potter was yanking off his gloves and tossing them aside. The moment his hands were uncovered, Draco was back against Potters body, his hands fisting in his thick hair and his mouth once again ravaging Potter’s desperately with everything he was worth.

Draco squeaked in surprise when Potter’s arms locked tight just beneath his arse and his feet were lifted clear of the floor. Potter stumbled into his living room like a drunken man, still responding wildly to the thrust of Draco’s tongue, carrying the lighter man to the sofa. Draco thought he was going to drop him on it, but instead, he sat him on one over-stuffed arm, then pulled away from the kiss to step between his spread thighs and instantly went for the fastenings of Draco’s trousers.

Draco didn’t even think to protest when the slacks fell open and Potter pushed them down past his hips. Yes, he was still wearing the jumper and scarf, but those weren’t in areas that were screaming for release. His cock, on the other hand, was quite desperate. He really wouldn’t have minded if Potter had simply taken him out and rubbed him off, but when Potter left his pants where they were, and slid to his knees, he involuntarily groaned in anticipation.

Large, square hands slid up Draco’s pale thighs, the skin shades darker on the fingers than on the legs. His face a mask of concentration, Potter studied the tenting in the black cotton y-fronts, then reached forward with one of his hands and ran his fingers over the straining arc. Draco gasped, his hips jerking, and Potter looked up at him with a slight smile, then still holding his gaze, leaned forward and very carefully, skimmed the bulge with his straight, even white teeth.

“Oh, Gods!” Draco cried out, one hand lifting to fist in Potter’s hair. “Potter, just… of, fuck…”

Using his teeth, Potter grabbed the elastic waistband of his pants, and pulling out and away, freed his throbbing cock. Draco panted loudly as Potter studied the revealed erection, then smiled slowly and curled his hand around it.

“Very nice,” he murmured, stroking once slowly from base to tip, and Draco choked. “And this,” he ran the fingertips of his other hand through the short, silky pale curls at the base of the rigid cock, “is beautiful.” He leaned forward and pressed his nose into the soft hair, and made a low, satisfied sound. “But this,” he went on, his voice dark, as he curled his thumb over the reddened head of Draco’s prick and collected a drop of almost clear pre-ejaculate, “Clearly needs some attention.” He looked up into Draco’s eyes once again, holding them, daring him to look away, and then opened his mouth and took Draco’s hardness into it.

“Oh, sweet Mordred,” Draco wheezed. Potter’s mouth was hot, and wet, and the suction he was providing was perfect, and his tongue was swirling around, and then flicking just under the crown of the throbbing head, and Draco couldn’t even think. For there, between his spread knees, green eyes wide on his face, Draco’s cock in his mouth, was Harry Potter, and it was every wet dream of the last dozen years come true. Draco saw Potter’s cheeks hollow, felt even deeper suction, and if Potter hadn’t reached up to hold him still, he’d have thrust right into his throat. But then he didn’t need to push deeper, for Potter was taking more of him, and more, and he could feel the walls of Potter’s throat around the head of his dick as he swallowed, and Draco felt his balls began to pull up, felt the sudden pressing urgency rush in a heated streak down his spine, and he grabbed Potter’s hair.

“Potter, Potter stop,” he said, trying to yank him back. “You have to stop. I’m going to come. Potter, of fuck, please…”

But Potter didn’t stop. He reached up and pried Draco’s hand from his hair and held it, their fingers linked and knuckles white, against his thigh. Then Potter met and held his eyes once again, and took him all the way to the root, and Draco was lost. With a sound that was half sob and half strangled cry, he arched his back and shuddered as he emptied himself into the heat of Potter’s mouth.

It seemed to go on forever, all locked muscles and helpless twitching, but Draco couldn’t be sure. He just knew that one moment he was coming harder than he ever had in his life, and the next he felt as hollowed out as a Halloween jack o lantern. When his locked muscles finally relaxed, he went so limp that he was just this side of boneless, and Potter caught him around the waist as he slid off of the arm of the couch and laid him gently on the rug beside the Christmas tree.

It took Draco several minutes to get his equilibrium back, and when he did, he opened his eyes and encountered the sight of several vividly wrapped gifts, just inches from his head, under the Christmas tree. Smiling faintly, he rolled his head and looked up at Potter, who sat beside him with his back against the sofa. Potter was watching him, green eyes hooded, every line of his strong body strung tight as he breathed heavily, and Draco felt a rush of both sympathy, and understanding.

“Well, that was lovely, but one sided,” He murmured, and lifted his left hand. “Come here,” he whispered, “and allow me to return the favor.”

Potter hesitated for just a moment before moving to him on his knees. Draco rolled onto his side when Potter was kneeling near his face, and he reached up and opened the button on Potter’s trousers, easing the zipper down carefully over the lump of his erection. He pushed the dark slacks down to the top of sturdy thighs, and the sight of Potter in just white cotton briefs was enough to make Draco’s mouth go dry. Potter wasn’t small, and Draco ran his fingers over the bulge in startled wonder.

“Holy shit, Potter,” he murmured. “I can do this, but I might have to unhinge my jaw.”

Potter made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so desperate. “Actually, I’d rather…” he went silent and red rushed up his neck.

“You’d rather what?” Draco said, feeling very magnanimous at the moment. “Whatever you want.”

Something flared in Potter’s eyes. “I want to see you,” he whispered. “All of you. I want to feel your skin. I want to feel your body under mine.”

Draco swallowed heavily, but nodded.

He sat up and Potter helped him pull off his clothes and toss them aside. Potter removed his own as well, and Draco had his first unencumbered view of his body. Potter had been thin and wiry in their youth, but there was nothing thin about him now. His body wasn’t over muscled, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and his skin over all of those mouth watering hills and hollows was sleek, and smooth.

“Gods,” Draco breathed, running his hands up Potter’s striated stomach. “You’re beautiful.” His hand slipped down and curled around an imposingly aroused cock, stroking it slowly. Potter’s eyes closed on a soft grunt, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

“So are you,” he muttered, voice strained.

“Come here, Harry,” Draco breathed, lifting both hands to curl around Potter’s waist, pulling him toward him, “lie on me. I want to feel you, too.”

That first moment, as Potter’s weight settled on him, would stay with Draco forever. All of that solid strength, all of that smooth skin. It was heaven, and Draco sighed even as Potter pressed his face into the curve of Draco’s throat and shifted his hips so that his cock was aligned with Draco’s, which was showing signs of renewed interest. Draco spread his legs instinctively, his hands sliding over the curves of Potter’s muscled back.

“Is this what you wanted,” he asked against Potter’s ear. Potter nodded against his neck, and slowly thrust forward. Draco gasped, caught off guard by how hot it was to have that body undulating on top of his, to have that hard cock stroking along his. Potter did it again, and then again, and Draco curled his leg around Potter’s calf.

“Oh, yes,” he whispered. “Do that again.” Potter did, and Draco’s eyes rolled up a bit in his head. His cock was now fully hard, and he realized in wonder that he could come again.

When Potter pushed up on one arm, Draco slid his hands to Potter’s shoulders, holding on as he began to thrust against him in earnest. Draco began to move as well, his breath shortening as he saw the tightening in Potter’s face, saw the tendon’s that began to stand out down each side of his strong throat. Reaching between them, he curled his hand around both of their cocks and even though he couldn’t close his fingers, squeezed.

“Oh, shit, yes,” Potter groaned, pumping harder into the grip, rubbing harder against Draco’s still sensitive prick, and he arched beneath him. Sweat began to shine on Potter’s forehead, slid in droplets down his face, gleaming like crystal in the reflected lights from the Christmas tree nearby. Potter’s mouth dropped open and his arched brows furrowed, and he added his hand to Draco’s, squeezing their fingers together so hard that it was almost painful. “Can you come again?” he asked, his voice rough. “Because I can’t… hold out… much longer…”

“Yes,” Draco panted, arching up into their hands, arching into the rolling thrust of Potter’s body.

“Soon?” Potter gasped out.

“Yes!” Draco replied, startled that it was true.

“Now?” Potter began to move on top of him harder, and harder, his face a mask of raw need.

“Yes!” Draco cried, hips surging up off of the floor. “Yes, Gods. Now!”

And he did, spurting over their joined fingers, adding needed lubrication to Potter’s continued thrusts. Draco gasped, fingers biting into Potter’s shoulders, and he looked down and watched as Potter cried out and came as well, body locking, muscles bulging, slender ropes of shining white painting his stomach and Draco’s. He hung there for a moment, shaking, then much as Draco had earlier, his locked muscles went lax, but he was able to lower himself onto Draco before he rolled them to the side, his arms around him, holding him close. Draco pressed his face into Potter’s slick throat, and held on just as tight.

The only sound for a very long time was their breathing as it returned to a semblance of normal. Draco finally heard and then felt a muttered cleansing charm, and he shivered as Potter’s magic moved over his skin.

“Are you cold?” Potter asked against his ear, and Draco shook his head. Again, it was quiet. Draco felt Potter swallow before he spoke again. “I’ve never felt anything like that in my life,” he said quietly, and Draco smiled into his throat.

“Good,” he said. “I’d hate to think I was the only one.”

Potter leaned back and sought his eyes, and smiled when he saw that Draco was smiling, as well. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Draco responded fervently. “Really.”

Potter’s grin turned self-satisfied. “Good.” He paused, then lifted one hand to gently push the fringe from Draco’s eyes, his palm coming to rest against his cheek. “You really are amazing,” he breathed. Draco turned his face and kissed Potter’s palm.

“So are you,” he replied. “And I can tell you one thing.”

“What’s that,” Potter asked, his eyes shining.

“I may never be able to look at presents under a Christmas tree again for the rest of my life without getting hard.”

Harry looked startled, then laughed. “Well,” he managed after a moment, “now you know how I feel about candy canes.”

Their soft, mingled laughter filled the room.


	24. What Revealed in Daylight

Harry woke slowly, but even before he was fully cognizant, he was smiling.  He was warm, and boneless, and he felt as if a great knot that had been tied around his chest for at least two years was suddenly and miraculously gone.  Inhaling deeply, he caught a scent on the still morning air; woodsy, spicy, warm. It was then that he registered the weight against his chest, and the measured, even breathing that mirrored his own.

Opening his eyes, he glanced down and the cool, pale light of early morning illuminated the fair, tousled head lying in the middle of his chest.  There was a long, pale arm along his side, and a long fingered hand limp on his shoulder, and below the sheets, slender legs were tangled with his.  His own arms were wrapped around the body draped over him, and they tightened reflexively as he came fully awake.  It hadn’t been a dream, he reflected with wonder.  I had been real.  And it was now Christmas morning, and the best gift he’d ever received was lying in his arms.

Draco must have felt the hands that tightened on him, for he shifted, exhaled heavily, and Harry saw the pale lashes flutter before they lifted over his light eyes.  Groggily, Draco lifted his head.

Their eyes met, and held, and Harry held his breath.  And then, slowly, Draco smiled, and all was right with the world.

“That was real,” he said, his voice morning hoarse.  Harry thought it was very sexy, and his morning erection twitched appreciatively.  “I was afraid it had been a dream.”

Harry reached up and smoothed the uncharacteristically messy hair with his hand.  “No, not a dream,” he said.  “Unless we’re both having the same one.”

The corner of Draco’s lips pulled up in a sexy, sleepy smirk, and Harry wondered how he could have ever found the expression anything other than wildly appealing.  Draco shifted higher on Harry’s body, his thigh slipping between Harry’s legs.  “Well, how likely is that, honestly?” He asked, propping his arms on Harry’s chest and looking down into his face.  “Unless there was some nefarious spell at work.”  He frowned mischievously.  “Did you hex me, Potter, when I wasn’t looking?”

“No sir, I did not,” Harry responded with an arch of his brow.  “I kissed you, I touched you,” his voice dropped into a sexy register, and he reached up and ran the back of his hand along Draco’s sharp cheekbone.  “I made love to you,” Draco turned his face and pressed a kiss to the back of Harry’s hand.  “But,” Harry went on, “I did not hex you.  Did you hex me?”

Draco feigned outrage.  “Certainly not.  It was merely my natural sex appeal.”

“Well, there is that,” Harry agreed magnanimously.  “Which means we managed to end up naked together without any magic being involved at all.”

Draco smiled slowly.  “Oh, I don’t know that I’d say that.  The whole thing seemed pretty magical to me.”  Harry reached up and slipped his hand around Draco’s nape, pulling him down for a lingering kiss.  It was a long time before either of them spoke again.

When they were lying entangled in the middle of the huge bed, sweat drying on their skin, breathing returned to normal, Harry turned his head and studied Draco’s profile.  “You going to the Manor today?” he asked softly, entwining their fingers.  Draco nodded.

“You?”

“The Burrow,” Harry answered.  He paused.  “Honestly, I’d rather just stay here in bed with you.”

Draco lifted their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss there.  “I agree,” he said, then sighed.  “However, if I did not show up for Christmas luncheon with my mother, she’d send out a search party.” He turned his head and grinned at Harry, and his eyes were bright.  “And I’ve a feeling she’d know just where to send them.”

Harry knew he was coloring slightly when Draco chuckled.   “Well, after she caught me groping you in Parkinson’s parlor, I’m sure that’s true,” he said a slight smirk of his own.

Draco rolled onto his side, pillowing his cheek on their joined hands.  “You know, there’s nothing that says we can’t put in an appearance at our respective obligations, and then meet this evening.”

Harry rolled onto his side facing him, his heart lighter than he could remember it being in a very long time.  “I’d like that,” he said.  “It will make a day full of rampaging red-haired children easier to bear.”

Draco shuddered.  “Nothing would make a day full of rampaging red-headed children easier to bear,” he said with a sniff, and Harry grinned.  “You’re certain you wouldn’t rather go to luncheon at the Manor with me?  I can owl mother to set another place…”

Harry studied the teasing light in the pale eyes, and smiled.  “I can’t,” he said with real regret.  “But, to my own surprise, I find that I’d actually like to.”

“Oh, we Slytherin’s aren’t so bad,” Draco commented.  “We’ll win you over in the end.”

“You’ll win me over with your end,” Harry teased, and Draco rolled his eyes expressively. 

“Honestly, Potter, that was feeble.  I mean, I know that you’re fixated with my arse, but that was weak even for you.  It would have been far more effective and less coarse if you’d ignored the obvious joke and told me that I was winning you over with my evident charms…”

Harry laughed and grabbed Draco, pulling him into his chest and holding him there when he wriggled ineffectively.  “I believe I’ve demonstrated several times that I’m taken with your ‘evident charms’,” Harry said.  “Do you need another display?”

Draco stopped struggling, and sighed theatrically.  “Well, if you must…”

Harry laughed and nuzzled beneath Draco’s ear before placing a kiss on his throat.  “Happy Christmas, Draco,” he murmured.  

 “Yes.” Harry felt Draco sigh as he opened his mouth on the sensitive spot where neck turned towards shoulder.  “It certainly is.”


	25. The Nature of Friendship

Harry sat at one end of the sway-back sofa in the living room at the Burrow, one leg crossed casually ankle over knee, his hands stacked behind his head as barely controlled Weasley chaos went on around him. His denims felt just a wee bit tight around the middle, and he was pleasantly drowsy. Molly’s dinner had been superb , as usual, and he’d eaten too much of it, and even with children running merrily through the rooms with their mother’s fussing at them, and babies crying, and Molly scolding someone out of sight, Harry thought he could drift off right where he sat. He’d not had much sleep the night before, he remembered with a lopsided grin, his mind drifting back to the tousled bed he’d left that morning, and the tousled blond he’d not wanted to leave at all. Inhaling and exhaling in bone deep satisfaction, he let his eyes drift closed, silently counting the minutes until he could be back in that bed, tousling that blond all over again.

“Okay, who is he?”

Harry opened his eyes and turned his head to the side when he felt a bump against his left shoulder. Ginny sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning into his side, a smirk on her face. 

“I beg your pardon?” Harry replied, one brow raised.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Harry Potter,” Ginny responded, sounding very much like her mother. “You’ve been wearing that self-satisfied smirk all afternoon, and I want to know who put it there.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he answered, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from pulling up in a slight smirk. 

Her brown eyes narrowed and she tossed some long auburn hair over her shoulder. “Listen, you. I recognize a man whose gotten laid when I see one. You’ve been tight as a drum and depressed for months, and all of a sudden you walk in here today just a bloody ray of sunshine, all loose and relaxed and smiling. And I want to know who got you that way.”

Harry turned towards her, his brow furrowed. “I wasn’t depressed.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Oh, for gods sakes, Harry. You’ve been miserable. Hermione’s been worried sick about you. We all have been.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “I’ve been all right,” Harry reiterated, but inside, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d been living a deadened half-life for so long that he’d almost convinced himself that he was fine, but even he had known he wasn’t. That morning, he’d awakened feeling… hell, just feeling, for the first time in as long as he could remember. It was heady stuff; he was having a very hard time not grinning all of the time.

He also knew that having a conversation about just who was responsible for the reversal of his disposition, in the middle of the Burrow’s living room, was probably not the best idea for a Christmas afternoon. Hoping to divert attention from his love life, he attempted a diversionary tactic.

“And, by the way,” he said wryly, “are you trying to get Corner to hate me, or is this nearly plopping in my lap an attempt to wind him up for later?” He shot a meaningful glance towards Corner, who was standing in the dining room, eyes narrowed and jaw tight as he watched them. 

“He’s being a prat,” Ginny answered dismissively, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And don’t try to change the subject.”

“What subject?”

Ron plopped on the other end of the sofa, a liberally iced and sprinkled cookie in his hand. Ginny shook her head, her lip curling.

“I can’t believe you’re still eating,” she said with a smirk. 

Ron frowned. “Hey, it’s Christmas. I can eat whatever I want on Christmas.”

“And what will your excuse be tomorrow?” Ginny shot back. “It’s Tuesday?”

Ron scowled at her even as Harry laughed. “You’re not funny,” Ron huffed. “And what subject was Harry trying to change?”

Harry felt his heart sink a bit. Ron could be thick, but if Ginny started espousing her opinions about his changed attitude, even he would be able to connect the dots…

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Where are Hermione and the baby, Ron? I haven’t held Rosie yet today…” he started to stand, but Ginny grabbed his jumper with a laugh.

“Oh, nice try, Harry. But you’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

“What are you on about, Gin?” Ron asked, brow furrowed.

“Your best friend, here. Tell me that you haven’t noticed that he’s a new man.”

Ron studied him, then shrugged. “He looks the same to me.”

“Ronald, I swear. Sometimes I think a house would have to fall on you. Look at him. He’s happy, relaxed, for Merlin’s sakes, he’s practically glowing.” This made Harry burst out with startled laughter. 

“I am not,” he protested, but in point of fact, he thought that he might be.

“Even you must be able to read the signs,” Ginny went on, undeterred. “He shows all of the signs of a man who has had phenomenal sex, and I want to know with whom. Don’t you?”

The cookie was half way to Ron’s mouth when it stopped, and Ron’s eyes snapped to Harry’s, his blue ones very wide. Harry hoped that his expression showed nothing, but he knew that he was lost when he felt heat begin to spread from the collar of his black jumper, up his neck to his cheeks. For a moment, he saw dismay flirting with Ron’s expression as he studied Harry’s eyes, and Harry felt his euphoria threatened. But then Ron seemed to decide something, and he averted his gaze, taking a bite of the cookie. 

“I think you’re mental, Ginny,” Ron said after he’d swallowed, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Besides, Harry’s personal business is his own, and you’ve no right to pry. Seems to me you ought to be more concerned about why Michael just stormed out the back door than about what Harry is or isn’t doing.”

Ginny stared at him for a long moment, her mouth slightly open. She finally looked between the two of them with a scowl.

“Fine,” she fumed. “Don’t tell me. But I will find out.”

When she’d stood and flounced towards the kitchen, Harry turned to Ron to say something, but Ron just held his hand up, forestalling him. “I really don’t want to know,” he said softly, “and I’m not just saying that.” He paused, then sighed. “I’m not going to get in your business. If it works for you, that’s enough for me.” He popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and shot Harry a wry look. “Just warn me before you tell Hermione, yes? So that I can be somewhere else at the time?”

Harry felt a grin spread over his face. “Deal.”


	26. The Nature of Friendship, Slytherin Style

Draco stalled for as long as he could before going to the Manor on Christmas afternoon. He went to his flat and showered, dawdled over his wardrobe selection, styled and re-styled his hair. He wrapped packages for his mother, selected a bottle of wine from his private stores, even stopped by a bakery that he knew was open on Christmas day and selected an assortment of pastries, all with a slightly sappy grin on his face. 

“You look like you're having a lovely holiday,” the woman behind the counter at the bakery said as she handed him the crisp white box full of treats, smiling at him.

“I am,” he answered, returning her smile. “Best I've had in years.” And he tipped her extravagantly.

As he walked to the apparition point, his boots crunching in the snow and a slight breeze chilling his cheeks, he thought back to the night before, although each step was a subtle reminder in itself. His body was still thrumming pleasantly, and he felt faintly giddy from lack of sleep. Some of his muscles, long un-used to such a strenuous workout, ached, but the ache wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it was exactly the opposite.

They hadn't shagged yet, not fully. Potter hadn't pressured him, for which Draco was grateful. To be honest, the thought of it was faintly intimidating. And yet, the idea also made his heart race and his breath grow short. Even with what they had done, Potter was an amazing lover, and Draco sighed softly in an excess of satisfaction. He'd been with his share of men before, but none of them had taken the time, or the care, that Potter had. When he'd risen from Potter's bed that morning, he'd felt as expertly tuned and played as a fine violin, and just as coveted. They'd showered together, which had led to soapy explorations that had merely primed Draco for later. When Potter had kissed him goodbye, he'd felt as if the strength from his limbs was being drawn through his mouth. He'd never been kissed like that, where the kiss itself left you feeling weak-kneed and dizzy and yet in desperate need of another. He shivered at the memory, and found himself wishing that he could just skip the festivities to return to the party in Potter's bed.

When he arrived at the Manor, his mother met him with a scolding over how late he was and effusive kisses and hugs. When she led him into the sitting room where the family tree was, he was startled to see not just his aunt Andromeda and his young cousin, Teddy, but Pansy, her mother and Pansy's husband Ryan waiting. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” Draco said, offering Ryan his hand. 

“Isn't it?” Narcissa said with delight. “Pansy owled me last night, reminding me of all the fun we used to have sharing holidays when you children were younger, and I just thought it would be lovely for us all to be together again.”

Draco smiled as he bent to press a kiss to Pansy's fragrant cheek, then whispered in her ear, “I'd have called you later, you pushy bint.”

She returned the kiss and gave him a hug. “No, you wouldn't have, and I insist on a blow by blow,” she leaned back and gave him a cheeky smile. “As it were.” She batted her lashes at him and dropped her voice into a whisper. “Unless I'm mistaken, and you aren't headed straight back to his bed the moment you leave here.” 

“You are incorrigible,” he muttered under his breath, and her answering smile was brilliant. 

Dinner was the traditional goose with trimmings. The wine flowed, the conversation was lively and easy. Pansy sat next to Draco and subtly tried to question him, but he deflected her fairly easily by changing the subject or engaging young Ted. The child was bright, and funny, and terribly clumsy, spilling his milk on the damask table cloth and dribbling gravy on his shirt, and Draco couldn't help but be reminded of the crashes he'd heard inside of Potter's house. He had an image of the child with flour in his hair and icing on his hands, and it made him smile.

“Well, if that isn't the look of a man who's been recently fine-tuned, I don't know what is,” Pansy murmured, leaning into his side. 

Draco shot her a wry look. “Fine-tuned? Really, darling. How crude.”

“Is there another, better term?” she asked innocently, eyes wide. “Sorted? Set to rights? Shagged into insensibility?”

“Pansy!” he hissed, kicking her calf lightly under the table. “For gods sakes, behave yourself.”

She pouted. “Well, if you'd just give me a little something, I wouldn't have to be so pushy, now would I?”

He just shook his head.

When they'd retired into the sitting room for gifts around the tree, Draco was pleased with the set of platinum cuff links from his mother and a book titled “Potions from the Ancients” from his Aunt. The room was a flurry of wrapping paper and lively conversation when he picked up the package from Pansy. 

“Open the card first,” she instructed him with a smirk, and he sent her a look as he slipped his fingers under the flap. 

He withdrew the card, and was immediately glad his mother's attention was engaged by his aunt. One the front was a picture of a well-developed man, nude from the waist up. He had a reckless fringe of dirty blond hair that hung over part of his face, and behind him, framing a set of broad shoulders, were white wings. _Peace on Earth_ , was written above his head. _And good will toward men_ , beneath him. Draco rolled his eyes at his oldest friend, then opened it.

_Isn't he lovely?_ Pansy had written. _He reminds me of you. Shall I send him along to Potter? Enjoy the enclosed! Love, Your Pans._

Draco shook his head and carefully slid the card back into the envelope, putting it back on top of a package he was now quite certain that he wasn't going to open in front of his mother. “Pansy,” he said pointedly, rising from his chair. “Would you care to accompany me to the wine cellar? I think we could use a dessert wine, and you're so good at selecting those.” He offered his hand and she took it with a smug smirk. 

“Why, I'd be delighted, darling,” she answered.

“We'll be right back, mother,” Draco said, excusing them as they left the room.

They got as far as his father's study, which was right down the hallway, before Draco propelled her through the door and closed it after them.

“All right, you obnoxious tease,” he said, propping his hands on his hips. 

“What, you didn't like my card?” she asked, batting her long eyelashes. He narrowed his eyes. “Honestly, darling, he reminded me of you.”

“First of all, I would never pose with wings,” he snarled. “I've had quite enough of comparison's between my coloring and the Veela, thank you very much. And secondly,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “I'm much better looking than that.”

Pansy grinned. “It's true, you are.” She leaned her hip on Lucius Malfoy's desk. “But you aren't very forthcoming with information. And you did promise me details.”

Draco shot her a wry look. “I promised you nothing, my dear. You insisted.”

She shrugged. “Same difference. Oh, come on, Draco,” she finally whined. “We're talking the golden boy, here. Saviour of Wizard Kind, the Boy who bloody Lived. Throw us a bone!”

Draco couldn't help the exasperated smile that spread across his face. He shook his head slowly, and prepared to tell her what she wanted to know. And then to his surprise, because he'd always told Pansy everything about his sexual exploits in the past, he found that he just... couldn't. 

“I... can't,” he said, bemused. “I just... it wasn't like with the other's, Pans. It's not something I want to pick apart, or dissect. It was...” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged helplessly. 

“Bad?” she touched his arm, concerned. 

“Oh, no,” he assured her emphatically, smiling slightly. “No, not remotely.”

“Then, I don't understand...” she murmured.

“Pansy,” he began, then sighed, his eyes finding hers. “This time, it's private.”

She stared at him for a long moment, and he saw understanding dawn across her features. He also saw it followed immediately by concern. “Oh, darling,” she breathed. “Do be careful. Don't jump in too fast. I'm sure he's a lovely man...”

“He is,” Draco cut in. “Truly. A lovely, warm, funny man.” Draco shook his head and closed his eyes. “Who completely and utterly owns me.” He sighed heavily. “And I am so screwed.”

She put her hand on his arm, and he looked down into her wide brown eyes. “Well,” she said softly. “At least you're getting that.”

He stared at her, and then began to laugh, and she joined him. “Gods, I love you,” he sighed as he swept her into a hug. 

“And I you, you prat,” she answered. 

“Come on.” He stepped back. “If we're gone much longer without selecting a wine, you're husband will think we're having an affair.”

She laughed lightly. “Hardly, darling. Hunter knows that I have absolutely nothing you're interested in but my mind.”

Draco offered her his arm as they left the study.

“So, do I dare open your gift in front of my mother?” He asked, brow arched wryly.

She smiled. “Darling, do you think I'd give you something inappropriate in front of your mother?” He shot her a look. “All right, well, point.” she acceded. “But in this case I was remarkably discreet. All she'll see is what looks like a potions kit with two vials, one blue, one purple.” Her smile morphed into a smirk. “Only you and I will know that the vials contain a heating and a cooling lube that will rock someones small planet.”

Draco couldn't help it; he laughed again. “Pansy, what would I do without you?”

She squeezed his arm. “Have very boring sex.”


	27. His and His

Draco trudged up the frozen drive that led to Potter's house from the Apparition point on the nearby road, so cold that his hands and feet felt numb. It was well after eight in the evening and a stiff breeze had picked up. The light snow that had fallen all afternoon swirled around him in little tornadoes of white, glittering in the light from the carriage lantern that threw a golden glow over the scene. He trudged up the porch steps, his fur collar pulled up high around his throat, and hoped for a time when he could just floo into the living room and avoid the elements all together, then cautioned himself against letting his heart run away with his head. Potter might not be ready for the kind of commitment that indicated... He rang the bell, hoping against hope that Potter was already home.

Footsteps sounded from inside, to Draco's relief. When the door opened and Potter stood there, wearing fitted black slacks, a lumpy green jumper, and a smile, Draco had to restrain himself from simply grabbing the man. Potter didn't seem to have the same sense of caution, and caught him around the nape, pulling him in and kissing him soundly before urging him in through the door.

“Your face is freezing,” he said, frowning slightly. “We should have hooked the Manor to the floo network, and then you wouldn't have had to be out in that. Come in by the fire.”

Draco's body was freezing, but his chest flooded with warmth and instead of going into the living room, he turned and wrapped his arms around Potter's neck and kissed him again, deeply. Potter made a soft sound of surprise, then wrapped his arms around Draco and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. He was also the one who noticed a few moments later that Draco was shivering.

“Draco, you're cold,” Potter scolded lightly, pulling back from the kiss. “You need to warm up. Come on,” he started for the living room, Draco's hand gripped tightly in his, then paused by the staircase and looked up thoughtfully. “You know what?” He turned back to Draco with a soft smile. “I've a better idea.”

He started up the stairs then, Draco's fingers linked with his.

“How was your Christmas?” he asked as he urged Draco along.

“It was good,” Draco answered, surprised to find that he actually was so cold that his jaw felt tight. “Mother was there, of course. Pansy and Ryan. And my aunt and my cousin.”

Potter shot him a pleased look over his broad shoulder. “Teddy was there?”

Draco nodded, smirking even as his lips trembled. “He'd be completely charming if he weren't forever spilling things. Mother's damask tablecloth may never be the same.”

Potter laughed softly. “He comes by that honestly,” he said, turning into his bedroom. “His mother was a wonderful woman, who could trip over lint.”

“I never met her,” Draco said softly as Potter released his hand and went into the en-suite bath. Moments later, Draco heard the sound of water filling a tub. When Potter came back, he crossed straight to Draco and carefully removed the fur hat from his head before starting on the buttons down the front of his coat. 

“You never met Tonks?” he asked, easing the coat off of Draco's shoulders and laying it over a nearby chair. The wooden box in the pocket clunked softly, and Potter shot him an curious look.

“Present from Pansy,” he said quickly, knowing his face was even more red. “Potions, and such. And no, I never met Nymphadora. Our families were... estranged, then,” he answered, and even though his cheeks were cold, he could feel them filling with hot color. 

Potter nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, I'm glad that you aren't anymore,” he said softly, taking Draco's hands and removing his gloves one at a time. “Teddy needs all of the family he has left.” He gently eased off the argyle sweater that Draco was wearing, laying it with the coat, then loosened his tie. “Take the rest off,” Potter ordered gently, taking a step back. “I need to check the water.”

Draco did as he was told as Potter crossed back into the bath, pulling his tie over his head and unbuttoning his shirt. 

“You are joining me in there, aren't you?” he called, shrugging out of the shirt and kicking off his shoes. He glanced down and saw gooseflesh on his arms and stomach. He'd had no idea he was so cold, but he even looked a bit blue.

“If you'd like,” Potter called back. “This was mainly to warm you as quickly as possible.”

“What?” Draco answered, unfastening his slacks and stepping out of them. “It wasn't a shameless ruse to get me naked? I'm so disappointed.” He pushed off his pants and his socks just as he heard the water turn off and Potter returned to the room. Draco had wrapped his arms around his body as he waited, and Potter smiled at him.

“I need a shameless ruse to get you naked, do I?” he asked, one brow arching.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Apparently not.”

Potter smiled and reached out with his hand. Draco took it, a bit self-conscious as he felt Potter's eyes move over him from head to foot, something faintly predatory in them. 

“I feel a bit at a disadvantage, here,” he said as he padded barefooted across the rug. Potter's eyes were still on him even as backed through the bathroom door. 

“You, naked, are never at a disadvantage,” Potter said firmly. “Anyone else might be, but not you. You're stunning.”

Draco glanced down. He'd never been sure how to take compliments. It was one thing for him to know that he was beautiful naked; it was quite another for him to say that he knew it. 

The bathroom was faintly steamy, and when Draco turned towards the tub, he saw that there was a soft film of moisture lifting from the water. There were also two candles floating on the surface, an open bottle of wine in the corner with two partially filled flutes standing beside it, and a slender vase holding one red rose. He turned to Potter with a wry smirk.

“This wasn't a ruse?” he said, gesturing. “You're pretty organized for a man who just 'wanted to get me warm'.” 

Potter's cheeks turned pink, and Draco was charmed. “I hadn't planned it,” Potter said a bit defensively. “But I am a wizard. I know how to take advantage of a situation when it's presented to me.”

Draco leaned into him, and kissed him softly. “It's lovely.” He smirked against Potter's lips. “Now, you get naked.”

Potter smiled back, lips curling. “Yes, sir.”

Draco leaned over and tested the water. It was a bit warmer than he usually liked it, but not scalding. He glanced over his shoulder when he felt fingertips tracing the curve of his left cheek. Potter was staring at his arse, his eyes heated as his hand softly stroked the full, firm flesh. 

“You have,” he murmured, fingers spreading and squeezing lightly, “the most astonishing arse.”

“So you've said,” Draco answered a bit breathlessly. He stayed where he was as Potter mapped his other cheek as well, lashes drifting over his eyes at the feel of the fingers soft on his skin. He shivered for a completely new reason, but Potter misinterpreted it. 

“You need to get in,” Potter said, finally letting his hands drop away. “You won't get warm standing there.”

Draco stepped into the tub, and couldn't contain the sigh of pure pleasure that escaped his lips as he settled into the water, his back against the side. Instantly, he felt the heat began to seep into his skin and his muscles, and the tension flowed out of him as he lay his head back against the rim, his eyes on Potter as he pulled his jumper over his head, then efficiently unfastened his slacks. The trousers slid to the floor, and Draco eyed the half-hard cock that was revealed when Potter divested himself of his white cotton pants.

Gods, the man was beautiful, Draco thought as he watched him. All smooth skin over muscles, all honey brown hills and valleys. The hair on his body was as black as the hair on his head, but there wasn't much of it. Under his arms, a neat thatch at his groin. His chest was smooth, as were his arms and his back, and his copper colored nipples peaked as they came into view. Potter kicked his clothes aside, gently scooped the two candles out of the water and sat them in the corner near the wine, and stepped into the bath. “Don't want any unfortunate or embarrassing wax accidents,” Potter said, grinning, and settled at the other end, his legs tangling with Draco's as he leaned back against the side.

The tub wasn't huge, but it was certainly big enough for the two of them. Potter handed Draco a glass, and took the other one for himself.

“You've asked about my Christmas,” Draco said, sipping the very fine Merlot. “How was yours?”

Potter smiled against the rim of his glass. “Interesting,” he answered. “Ginny just wanted to know who I'd been sleeping with to put the glow in my cheeks.”

Draco coughed, sputtering slightly. “She... what?”

“She said clearly I'd gotten laid, and she wanted to know by whom.”

Draco blinked. “Well.” He wasn't sure exactly what to say to that. “I thought it was only my friends who felt the need for wholly inappropriate and invasive lines of questioning.”

Potter laughed. “Oh, no. Fortunately, Ron set her straight.”

“Weasley?” Draco angled his head to one side. “Really? How did he do that?”

“By telling her it was none of her damned business,” Potter said, looking bemused. His eyes found Draco's and held. “And he knows I'm seeing you.”

Draco blinked again, gobsmacked. “Weasley... told his sister to mind her own business... even though he knows that we're seeing each other.” He shook his head when Potter nodded, and took a larger drink of the wine, draining nearly half the glass. Potter smiled. “The planets may well have just re-alligned.”

“Possibly,” Potter smiled, taking another sip of his wine and setting the glass aside. He scooted closer to Draco, reaching out to touch his flat stomach. The muscles contracted under his fingertips as the bath water rippled around Draco's shoulders. “But Ron actually does want me to be happy,” he said, fingers stroking over soft, wet skin. “And he sees that I'm happy right now.”

Draco searched Potter's face. “I hope so,” he murmured, turning the wine glass between his palms. “Because today, I'm happier than I've felt in longer than I can remember.”

Potter's eyes lifted, and Draco saw a soft light in them. “Good.” Moving slowly, he reached for the wine glass still in Draco's hands. “May I?” Draco handed it to him, watched the wet skin on Potter's side stretch as he turned and set the glass next to his own. He moved in closer then, and Draco's knees bent, his legs hooking over the top of Potter's as he leaned in and pressed his lips to Draco's throat. Draco let his head drop to the side, and he sighed softly. “I missed you today,” Potter said against his skin. 

“I missed you, too,” Draco admitted. It was true, but he'd not planned on saying it aloud. One languid hand lifted and he pressed his hand over Potter's heart, his thumb teasing a tightened nipple. Potter made a soft sound against his skin, and began to suck on it gently. 

After that, it was a slow ballet of arms and legs and hands and bodies. Draco felt Potter's cock bobbing slightly in the water, the tip brushing his lower stomach when he slid in closer yet. Draco's own cock was catching up, and he made a needy sound when the tip skimmed the wiry curls at Potter's groin. Potter filled his hands with soap from a pump bottle on the edge of the tub, and Draco luxuriated in the feeling of those strong hands, moving over his skin, slick with lather. When he reached below the water line and curled his fingers around Draco's cock, stroking him slowly but firmly, Draco felt his neck arch as he pushed his hips up into the touch. When he felt Potter shift closer so that Draco's bum was floating above the bottom of the tub and his thighs were spread wide, and his other hand, slick with something other than soap, slid between his legs and back behind his balls, Draco's mouth dropped open as he fought to breathe. He felt a fingertip ghost over his opening, and he tried not to stiffen.

“Is this all right?” Potter asked against his throat. “I don't want to go too fast...”

“No,” Draco managed. “It's fine, really.” 

Potter hummed in his throat, and carefully began to massage the tightened muscle. 

He was so gentle, and so patient, that by the time Draco felt the finger slip inside of him, he was almost desperate for the feel of it, and he pressed his hips forward to facillitate it. Still, Potter would not be rushed. He just left the finger in place until Draco began to loosen around it, and even then, he moved at a measure pace, kissing Draco's neck, his other hand still working firmly over his cock. It was almost sensory overload. It kicked clear over into pleasure so intense that it was almost painful when Potter crooked his finger, and pressed on his prostate.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco gasped, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, Harry.”

Potter made another sound in his throat and began to rub him internally in a gentle motion, and Draco cried out, his hands gripping hard shoulders and his nails digging in. Within moments, he felt a streak of fire down his spine and his balls begin to draw up, and his straining thighs began to shake. “Stop, stop,” he gasped, and immediately the movement inside of him ceased. He was panting when Potter found his eyes. 

“Did I hurt you?” Potter asked, brow furrowing. 

“No,” Draco shook his head quickly. “No, but I... I want to come with you inside of me.”

Potter's eyes darkened and a muscle twitched in his jaw, and yet even then, he withdrew his finger carefully.

“Bed,” he said flatly, standing. He took Draco's hands and lifted him, then caught a fluffy towel from the warming rack and wrapped Draco in it's folds, helping him out of the tub. They dried one another quickly, then Potter was kissing him again and urging him into the bedroom.

They crossed to the bed, and Draco paused, seeing his coat on the chair. When Potter started to kiss him, he put two fingers in front of his mouth, and Potter's brows arched in question. “In the pocket of my coat, the box you heard.” He knew that he was coloring, and he licked his lips before going on. “It's a Christmas gift, from Pansy.”

“All right,” Potter said in confusion, glancing at the jacket. 

“It's... something special,” he said faintly. “Something for us.”

Potter looked at the chair again, then crossed to it, feeling around for the jacket pocket and then withdrawing the small wooden box. He brought it to Draco, who opened it with shaking hands. 

“What the hell?” Potter said when he saw the two glass vials. He lifted one of them and held it up to the light, and Draco saw the words 'for Draco' etched in the glass. He glanced down, and the vial that still lay on the hunter velvet said 'for Harry'. “Is it a potion?” he asked, then rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously, it's a potion...”

Draco dampened his lips with his tongue. “It's lube.”

Potter's eyes snapped back to Draco's. “It's what?”

“It's... lube,” Draco answered with a shrug of one shoulder, and Potter stared at him in disbelief. 

“You're best friend,” Potter said slowly. “A married woman, gave you _lube_ for Christmas?” He shook his dark head. “Haven't you people heard of... scarves, or.. gloves? Hats, even!”

Draco couldn't help it. He began to giggle at Potter's incredulous expression. “She knows me,” he said finally. “She knew I'd want this more. And,” he reached out and ran his index finger down the middle of Potter's chest. “She said it was amazing; would rock a small planet.”

He saw Potter glance suspiciously at the two vials. “She does... like me now, right?”

Draco grinned. “She does. But she loves me, which means you're safe as well.” He stepped closer to Potter's body, leaned in until his lips were near Potter's ear. “You can't tell me you aren't a bit curious.”

He leaned back, and saw the speculative expression on Potter's handsome face. “Okay,” he said slowly. “If you go first.”

Draco's slow smile was wicked as he lay on his back on the bed, arranged a pile of pillows under is head, and spread his legs. “If you'll do the honors.”

Potter was still shaking his head as he knelt between the spread knees and uncapped the bottle with the purple potion in it. 

At first, it felt much the way the other lube that Potter had been using had. It was cool, and slick, and as Potter massaged it around his opening, he made a satisfied sound in his throat. He wasn't sure exactly what his first clue was that something had changed, but abruptly, rather than cooling, it began to tingle pleasantly. On the next indrawn breath, the muscle simply loosened of it's own accord, and Potter's fingers slid smoothly inside. 

Draco gasped in surprise. He'd never felt himself just... open like that before, and it wasn't painful or unpleasant, but it was strange. Almost immediately on the heels of that sensation there was another, one Draco recognized even though it hadn't happened to him often, and he knew his face was flooding with color. Potter's fingers, abruptly, began to feel like a tongue, slithering inside of him, licking smooth surfaces, wriggling, and Draco's back arched off of the bed.

“Are you all right?” Potter asked, seeing the stunned look on Draco's face. He nodded, because words were beyond his capacity at the moment. Potter had paused but then he continued to send his fingers into Draco's clinging warmth, and he was massaging the amazing lube into the area covering Draco's prostate, and he gasped again. “What is it?” Potter asked, his fingers going still. “Draco...”

But Draco couldn't answer, because his body felt like it was under a sensual assault that was driving him mad. He felt that singular feeling of pressure, but even though he could tell that Potter's fingers had gone still, each thudding beat of his heart had an echoing, squeezing sensation over the tight bundle of nerves. His cock began that throb and a slender dribble of pre-come slid onto his stomach, and he writhed on the sheets. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned. Potter withdrew his hand completely, looking at him in alarm, but he couldn't stop his hips from pumping up into the air.

“Oh, gods, Harry,” he gasped, his fingers digging hard into Potter's biceps. “I need you, please, now...”

Potter caught his thrusting hips and slid closer, but Draco stopped him. “The lube...” he gasped, head thrashing.

“I'm not sure I want...” Potter began, eying the box with suspicion and a bit of alarm.

“Oh, trust me,” Draco managed through clenched teeth. “If it's anything like mine, you definitely do 'want'. This is incredible.”

Potter stared at him for another moment, then took the blue vial out of the box and uncorked it. He sniffed it suspiciously, and Draco smacked his arm. 

“She wouldn't give you anything to hurt you,” he ground out, even as the twin sensations of a tongue in his arse and maddening prostate massage made his eyes cross. 

Potter paused just a moment longer, then tipped the vial and let some of the cobalt blue potion drip onto the head of his hard cock. 

He covered himself liberally, had laid the tube aside and was stroking the lube, which had turned clear, into his skin when Draco saw him abruptly stiffen, his green eyes going very wide. “Oh, my God,” Potter gasped, his fingers tightening around his hardness. “Oh, my God...”

“Come on, Potter,” Draco said harshly, lifting his legs and propping his ankles on Potter's broad shoulders. “Come on, I need you.” Potter had closed his eyes and was shuddering, still squeezing his prick in a white knuckled fist.”Potter!” the green eyes shot open when Draco pinched Potter's nipple hard between his index finger and thumb. “Come on!”

Potter scooted closer then, sweat glistening on his forehead, and lined himself up. Moving slowly, he pressed inside.

Draco thought his heart might explode. He was as loose as he'd ever been in his life, and yet there was still a shocking burn that went along with being entered. And yet, the pain only seemed to meld with other sensations to become on huge, voracious need to be taken, and taken emphatically. He arched his hips up, even knowing that Potter was still trying to go slow, and he could only marvel at the man's control. He had no idea what Pansy's unique brand of torture was doing to Potter, but if it was anything like what was happening to him, he couldn't conceive of how the man had the control not to pound him through the mattress. Only, right now, he didn't want the control. He wanted the pounding.

“Merlin, you're so tight,” Potter said through whitened lips. “So fucking tight...”

“Potter, move,” Draco pleaded through clenched teeth. “Please, I need you to move...”

“I don't.. want to hurt you...” The tendons were standing out in bold relief down either side of Potter's throat, and sweat was sliding down his chest, and yet he still didn't move. 

“You're not going to hurt me!” Draco cried. “I need... I need...”

Taking matters into his own hands, Draco thrust up hard against Potter's body, forcing the large cock into him fully. He gasped aloud as fire streaked over his skin, but it wasn't enough. Pulling back, he thrust up again, and then again, and it was as if something dammed up inside of Potter burst, and his control went up in flames. 

He fell forward over Draco's body, one hand braced on the bed to hold himself up, the other dropping to curl around Draco's cock. He stroked him roughly, base to tip, several times before beginning to move his hips in rhythm with the harsh motions of his hands. Draco was bent cleanly in two, his ankles still over Potter's shoulders, and he held on for dear life as he was fucked as hard, and masterfully, and as thoroughly as he'd ever been before in his life. 

He looked up into glowing green eyes, and heard himself, as if from a long distance, begin to cry out on each emphatic thrust. “Yes, yes, yes,” he moaned. “Harder, harder, Harry.”

The bed frame began to shudder, the headboard pounded into the wall. Skin slapped skin hard and fast, wet, violent. And then fire was once again streaking the length of Draco's spine, and it was curling up high and hard, his hips off of the bed, and he was coming in streams of burning white that almost seemed to come from a place inside of him as yet untapped; from his essence, from his soul. He felt Potter stiffen at almost exactly the same moment, crying out, hard body pinning Draco down as he drove into him again, and again, then stiffened, shaking wildly, like a string being plucked on an electric guitar. And for the first, and only time in Draco Malfoy's sexual experience, he passed out cold.

oooOOOooo

 

He hadn't a muscle left in his body.

He was convinced of it. They'd all been liquified, and there was no way that he was ever moving independently, ever again. And then he felt the bed shift, and a soft sigh, and a hand touched his cheek gently. 

“Draco,” a voice asked. “Are you all right?”

Draco managed to lick his dry lips. “How, in the name of all that is holy, are you able to move?” He asked, his voice more of croak.

“Don't know,” he heard. “How are you able to come up with sentence like that?”

“Don't know.”

Finally, he pried open his eyes and turned his head to the side, and saw Potter lying there, his body still slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Potter's head rolled to the side, and he sought Draco's eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Aside from the conviction that I may never walk again, yes.” He studied Potter's flushed face. “You?”

“Aside from coming so hard I thought I'd pass out? Yes.” he answered. Silence returned for a few more moments, and Draco had closed his eyes and nearly dropped off when he heard Potter's voice again. “One thing,” he said, and Draco nodded without opening his eyes. He felt Potter's hand close over his, felt fingers link with his.

“What?” Draco asked.

“Definitely,” Potter said, breath finally steadying. “Definitely better than a scarf.”

Draco hadn't realized until that moment that he still had the strength to laugh.


	28. Snow Angels

When Draco arrived at his flat, it was to a space that felt cold and dim and almost alien to him. It was odd, he reflected, how quickly a place could go from being 'home' to being just a place where his clothes were, and how quickly another could come to feel like home. Potter's house, with its warm plaids, honey hued floors and crackling fires had come to feel far more like home than it should have after only two nights spent there, and yet Draco couldn't ignore the fact that it did. Potter's house, and Potter himself, offered Draco something his own flat had never provided; a sense of warmth, and welcome. His flat was beautiful, he thought as he slipped out of his coat and hung it on a coat rack just inside the front door. Mostly black and white with soft blue accents, it was a decorator's dream, but for the first time Draco realized that it felt more like a showroom than a home, and he wanted a home. 

He climbed the stairs that led to the second level, wearily unbuttoning his shirt. It had been a long day, and he was tired. But it was a good tired, he thought with a slight smile. A tired that was the result of strenuous activity, not the least of which had begun that morning in Potter's bed. 

The sex of the night before had been cataclysmic, to say the least. He was going to have a conversation with Pansy about her Christmas gift, primarily to find out where they could get more of it. He was aching and tingling in places he'd not even known he had. And while it wouldn't do to use the potions all of the time, once in a while, on a special occasion... Fortunately, the sex was just as satisfying without the added stimulus of the potions as it was with them, something that had taken Draco faintly by surprise. 

When Potter had wakened him that morning with slow, searching kisses and a warm hand curled around his cock, Draco had sighed into his mouth and gone to putty in his hands. He'd expected a slow, sweet shag, and he hadn't been disappointed. What he hadn't expected was the emotions that had flooded him as he'd lain beneath Potter, looking up into his eyes. Potter had caught his hands again, holding them near his head, their fingers linked as he'd moved into him in slow, measured thrusts that had filled him physically, and emotionally as well. He wasn't sure he'd ever 'made love' before, or even understood that there was a difference, but he understood it now. He'd never felt as connected to a lover as he had in that moment, and it had been humbling. 

When they'd been lying tangled around one another afterward, Potter had brushed gently at his fringe with his large hand. “Ted is coming over today,” he said softly. “I promised him we'd add a family to the snowman out front. And I imagine that there will be snowball pelting involved.” He smiled. “I'd love for you to stay, but I understand if you'd rather not.”

Draco hadn't been involved in a snowball fight in years, and yet, at that moment he couldn't think of a thing he'd rather be doing.

When Ted had arrived, stumbling from the floo, he hadn't seemed particularly surprised to see Draco there. “Hey, Cousin Draco!” he'd called brightly. “You gonna help us with the family for the snowman?”

Draco had sent the boy a raised eyebrow. “As if I'd trust the two of you. He'd end up with four fat children and a two-headed dog.” The small boy had laughed uproariously at the thought. 

Bundled up in some of Potter's snow gear that was at least a size too big for him, Draco had followed Potter and Teddy out into the yard, and the three of them had worked studiously for several hours. When they were done, the original snowman was wearing a old pair of Potter's spectacles, a Gryffindor scarf, and had a broomstick leaning against his left arm, made from a branch cut from a nearby tree. There was another snowman at his side, not so round, with an overcoat fashioned of snow, a carrot for a nose and a slightly pointed chin. Standing in front of them was a shorter snowman, coal for eyes and a radish for a nose, and sculpted hair that Potter had dyed with blue food coloring. As they were walking back towards the porch, Teddy had turned back and begun to laugh.

“What?” Potter had asked him, grinning at the sound of the child's laughter. The boy pointed at the snow people. 

“They look like us!” He'd piped up, still giggling, and Draco couldn't help but see the resemblance, too. 

They were about to climb the porch steps when Teddy stopped, grabbing Potter's arm. “Snow angels, Harry!” he'd cried, and if he'd thought of the best thing in the world. Potter had nodded, every bit the rambunctious little boy, and they'd bounded back into the yard, flopping down on their backs in the snow and flailing madly. They'd looked like nothing so much as a pair of over large, hyperactive golden retriever puppies, and Draco had shook his head in bemusement. When they stood, they were covered in snow, and their angels looked as if they were given to seizures.

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” Draco had huffed, marching back into the yard. “Philistines. Watch, and learn.” 

He'd laid down on his back carefully in the snow, wiggling to burrow down slightly, then lifted his arms and spread his legs in perfect sweeping motions. Once he'd done that, he reached up with his hand, and Potter pulled him to his feet. Both Potter and Teddy stared as he'd shaken the snow from his clothes.

“But that's,” Teddy sputtered. “That's perfect!”

And it was. A perfect snow angel, right down to the evenly spaced indentations for the feathers on the wings. 

“How did you do that?” the child asked, looking up at him in awe. 

“I'm a wizard,” Draco answered, giving the child a pointed look. Potter laughed. 

“Can you show me how?” Teddy had asked with growing excitement. 

“As soon as you've a wand, yes,” Draco had answered, and they'd climbed the steps together. Potter had slipped his arm around Draco's shoulders as they'd entered the house. 

“Leave it to you to have a snow angel who hasn't a hair out of place,” he'd whispered in Draco's ear, his warm breath sending a thrill down Draco's spine. “Makes me want to muss both of you.”

“Don't you dare,” Draco had retorted. “You'll ruin my image.”

They'd been in the kitchen after changing out of their wet things, Potter making cocoa at the stove, Draco putting cookies on a plate for Teddy when the child had looked up at him in assessment. 

“Are you Harry's someone?”

Draco had gone very still, his eyes lifting to meet the child's wide brown ones. “I beg your pardon?” he'd asked, sounding winded.

“Are you Harry's someone?” Teddy had repeated. “My Gramma Tonks told me that there's someone for everyone, and that Harry's someone would probably not be a lady.” Draco heard a faintly suffocated sound coming from behind him, but he didn't break eye contact with Ted. “You and Harry seem to have fun together, and you're always whispering and kissing and stuff when you think I'm not looking, and I was just wondering if you were his someone.” The boy shrugged, but Draco had a sudden feeling it meant more to him than he was letting on.

Potter apparently thought the same thing, because he came over then and set a mug on the table, leaning over until his eyes were even with Teddy's. “Would that be okay with you, if Draco were someone special to me?”

Teddy looked between the two men, seemed to think about it, then nodded slowly. “You're pretty cool,” he said finally, looking at Draco as if he were sizing him up. “And you don't talk to me like I'm a kid. So, yeah.” He picked up a cookie and bit into it, as if that were that, and Draco stood there feeling like he'd been caught by a stunner. Potter straightened and saw the expression on his face, and smiled as he came to him. 

“If it's okay with you, that is,” he murmured, slipping his arms around him and pressing his cheek against Draco's as he pulled him into an embrace. “I didn't think he'd ambush you. If you're uncomfortable...”

“I'm not,” Draco had said quickly. “I'm not,” he repeated, and realized that he wasn't. Not at all. In fact, he felt a bubble of warmth in his stomach at the thought. 

Potter had leaned back and looked into his eyes. “Good.” And then he'd kissed him, to the accompaniment of a seven-year-old making gagging noises.

They'd both decided that even though Teddy now knew that Harry and Draco were a couple, his staying over and sleeping in Potter's bed probably wasn't the best way for his aunt Andromeda to find out. With the reasoning that he really did have some things to take care of at his flat, he'd departed after dinner, and a very warm kiss goodnight on the porch. But now that he was back in his flat, he wanted to be out in the country in the cozy living room, bundled up in pyjamas before the fire, watching a movie on Potter's ridiculously over-sized television. He could see them in his mind's eye, curled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, and he felt slightly bereft as he dropped his shirt in the hamper in his bedroom and pulled a pair of silk pyjamas from his bureau. He really was tired, but for some reason, he doubted he'd sleep that night. Sleeping alone had lost all of its appeal.

He'd just put his mobile on the top of his dresser when it buzzed, and he snatched it up, smiling as he read the text message.

_“What are you doing?”_

“Getting ready for bed,” he typed back.

_“Are you naked?”_

Draco laughed out loud before answering. “Tell me you did not type that while sitting next to that child.”

_“He's engrossed in Batman. And you're avoiding the question.”_

Draco shook his head, smiling. “No, I am not naked. And behave yourself.”

_“Too bad.”_ There was a pause. _“I miss you.”_

Draco stared at the words for a long moment, surprised by how emotional they made him feel. He took a deep breath before answering. “I miss you, too.”

_“Can I see you tomorrow, in the evening?”_

“Of course,” Draco answered, then had a thought. “Why don't you come here for dinner?”

_“I'd like that. What can I bring?”_

Draco thought about it, then smirked. “Just you,” he answered. “And the pyjamas I gave you.”

He could almost imagine Potter's laughter. _“So, should I be naughty, or nice?”_

Draco's smile mellowed. “I'll let you figure that one out.” 

He flipped the phone closed and was still smiling as he walked into his bathroom.


	29. Fairy Wine and Rose Petals

When Harry stepped out of the floo at the Ministry, he was smiling. He smiled at the receptionist on the main floor, he nodded and smiled at the elevator operator, he even smiled at Wiggins from the International Magical Sports Confederation, and he thought the man was an arse. When he entered the offices of the Auror Division, he smiled at Miranda, the dispatch girl, and saw her mouth drop open and her eyes widen before she replied, sounding breathless. He greeted several of his Aurors with a friendly nod and a cheery greeting, and they greeted him in return, looking startled. They all appeared so taken aback by his good mood that Harry could only chuckle as he made his way into his own office and swept his full length cape from his shoulders, hanging it on the coat rack in the corner before he made his way to his desk, whistling softly under his breath.

About ten minutes later, he looked up when he heard footsteps enter his office, and found Leah standing in front of his desk, looking at him over the top of her half-glasses. He raised his brows in silent question. 

“Well, you don't look as if you've lost your mind,” she said, lips pursed. “But to hear those idiots out there tell it, you've apparently become quite insane.”

Harry glanced towards the open door and saw several people gathered in the outer office, their faces turned their way. They all quickly tried to appear very busy when they caught him looking at them.

“What?” Harry said, incredulous. “Because I smiled at them?”

“Well, to be fair,” Leah said reasonably, “you aren't usually a regular ray of sunshine. And for the last few months...” She shrugged.

Harry sat back in his chair. “For the last few months... what?”

She pursed her lips. “You've been a right bear to be around,” she said, her voice flat. Harry frowned slightly, once again glancing out the door.. “Now, don't misunderstand,” she went on. “Most of them have deserved everything you've said to them. And you haven't been in any way unreasonable.” She paused. “But you haven't been happy, either, and that's been pretty apparent.”

“I didn't realize I'd been that bad,” Harry said, glancing back at her. She cocked her head to one side.

“You've been awful,” she said with the stark honesty that Harry usually valued. At the moment, he wasn't certain he still did. “Which is what makes all of us wonder if you've perhaps been visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.” She smirked, and a grin tugged at his mouth.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not exactly.”

“There's a pool going.” A wicked twinkle started in her blue eyes, and Harry narrowed his.

“A pool...”

“On what has precipitated this change in your attitude.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do I want to know?” 

“Well, most of the men figure you hired someone and had spectacular Christmas sex.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and stacked his hands behind his head, his only answer a slow grin. 

“The women, on the other hand,” Leah went on, smirking, “mostly opt for true love.”

Harry knew that his eyes had given him away when Leah's smirk faded and her mouth dropped open slightly. She reached behind herself and softly closed the door. “Really?” She asked once there was no chance of them being over-heard.

He dropped his hands from behind his head and let the chair rock forward. “I'm not sure I want to talk about it yet,”he admitted softly. “Not because I don't trust you; you know I'd tell you anything. I just... I don't want to jinx it.”

“Given your experiences,” she said, her eyes gentle, “I don't blame you. But Harry... that's wonderful.”

Leah could be as starchy as an old potato, but Harry knew that she loved him, and on the inside she was as soft as a marshmallow. She'd been married to the same wizard for sixty years, and they had six children and sixteen grandchildren; if anyone believed in a 'happily ever after', it was Leah. 

“Well,” she said briskly. “That lot out there won't get any hints from me.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Harry grinned. “We'll just let them think I've gone mental.”

“Not such a leap, after all,” she said wryly. He just continued to grin. “There actually is some work to be done this morning.” She reached into the pocket of her robes and withdrew several memo's. “The Minister once again requests the honor of your presence.” Her tone was sardonic, and Harry smirked.

“You need to approve this months expense reports.” He made a face and she looked at him over the top of her glasses. “None of that, young man. You're the one who said that you needed to see where the money went.”

Harry nodded. “I know, I know.”

“And,” she rummaged in her pocket and withdrew a large envelope, holding it out to him. “You still have not responded to your invitation to the Ministry's New Year's Eve Ball, and the chairwoman of the committee is driving me spare. Will you please tell the nuisance that you aren't going so that she quits owling me all day long?”

Harry started to nod as he took the invitation, but then his expression grew thoughtful. “Leah,” he said, lips slightly pursed, “have I ever gone to this?”

“Not in years,” she answered briskly. “You have always said it was a complete crush, and that the media has too much access. Why?”

Harry sat back in the chair again, rocking slightly, his lips curling up at the corner. “I'm thinking this might be the year to go. Tell her I'd like two tickets, will you?”

Leah's smile was slow, but knowing. “How is this new flame of yours going to feel about being trotted out like Potter's trick pony? That might be a bit overwhelming, don't you think?”

Harry began to laugh softly. “Oh, trust me,” he managed through his chuckles. “If he agrees to go with me, the reporters won't know what hit them.”

oooOOOooo

When Harry arrived at Draco's flat that evening, he had a bottle of red wine wrapped in a silver basket under one arm, and a dozen red roses under the other. He hadn't been sure about the roses, and had debated buying them; did one buy roses for a man? He decided that one probably did, if one was about to ask said man to 'out himself' as his boyfriend in front of all of wizard London. It was one thing for Teddy to know that Draco was special to him; it was quite another to ask Draco to parade himself on his arm for all the world to see. He just hoped that he wouldn't be either intimidated by the prospect, or insulted by the assumption. Taking a deep breath, he rang the bell.

When Draco opened the door, once again Harry was struck by just how handsome he was. He was wearing a white button down over white linen trousers, his blond hair was loose over his forehead and around his face, but what struck Harry instantly were his bare feet. Long and slender like the rest of him, fine-boned, pale; Harry had a quick flash of him rubbing his thumb along the high arch, and he caught his breath. 

“Hello,” he said, sounding hoarse. Draco smiled slowly, as if he knew just what Harry had been thinking, and it was a glamorous thing to see. 

“Hello,” he answered, stepping back, holding the door wide. Harry entered, pausing to kiss him quickly as he passed, before entering the entryway. 

“You've brought gifts,” Draco said, eying the basket and the flowers.

“I have,” Harry acknowledged, presenting the wine first. Draco looked at the basket, and then the label, his brows arching.

“Fairy Wine,” he mused. “Very nice.”

“And, these are for you, as well.” Harry held out the roses, and was delighted by the blush that lightly stained Draco's cheeks. 

“They're beautiful,” he said, pressing his faintly pointed nose into the bouquet and inhaling. He lifted his eyes, and they were warm as his fingers stroked the velvety petals. “But you didn't need to bring me flowers, Potter. I'm not a girl.”

Harry stepped close to him, catching his chin with his thumb and index finger. “I know very well that you aren't a girl,” he said, his voice lowering, just before he leaned in and kissed Draco briefly, but thoroughly. 

When he drew back, Draco looked up at him, bemused. “Well,” he said, blinking. “Hello to you, too.”

Harry smiled, took the wine and set it on a small table in the entryway, then took Draco's hand. “Where can we sit for a moment?” he asked. “I need to talk to you.”

Draco frowned slightly. “That sounds a bit ominous,” he murmured. Harry smiled reassuringly. 

“It isn't,” he said firmly. “At least, I don't think so.”

“Well, now my curiosity is properly piqued.” Draco linked his fingers with Harry's and pulled him into a sitting room just off of the entryway. It was a lovely room, with a white leather love seat and black lacquer end and occasional tables. There was a fire in the fireplace and stained glass lamps glowed softly at each end of the small sofa.

“This is beautiful,” Harry said appreciatively.

“Thank you.” Draco sat on one end of the love seat, his long legs and bare feet curled up under him, the bouquet of roses across his legs. “What did you want to talk about?”

Harry patted the pocket of his cape, then stuck his gloved hand in and withdrew the thick white envelope that Leah had handed him that afternoon. He handed it to Draco, then sat beside him.

“What is it?” Draco asked, fingering the paper.

“Open it.” Harry lifted his arm along the back of the sofa, and waited.

Draco looked at him from the corner of his eye, then turned the envelope over, lifted the flap, and withdrew the thick white card. 

Harry knew what it said. “The Ministry of Magic requests the honor of your presence at a Celebration of the New Year, to be held in the Atrium at the Ministry, December 31st, from 8 pm. until 2 am. January 1st...”

Draco studied the invitation, then looked at Harry. “It's an invitation...”

“To a ball, yes.” Harry nodded. “The Ministry's New Year's Eve Ball.”

Draco frowned. “Why am I being invited to the Ministry's Ball?” he asked. “Malfoy's aren't exactly a prestigious name on the guest list anymore...”

“Well, this year, they are.”

Draco looked up at him. “Potter...” he said softly, then sighed. “Harry...”

“Draco,” Harry interrupted, then he paused and turned towards him, reaching for his hand. “Draco,” he repeated as he entwined their fingers, “the Ministry isn't inviting you. I am.” He studied the light eyes. “I want you to go. With me, as my date.”

Harry watched his face, saw the quick flash of something unreadable in the quicksilver eyes. “You want... me? To appear with you, in public?”

Harry ran his thumb over the strip of skin between Draco's hand and his cuff. “If we're going to do this,” he said softly, “I don't intend to hide.”

“But... your co-workers. The media...”

“What about them?”

Draco took a deep breath and lifted his chin. “Potter, you may not remember what was written about the Malfoy line right after the war, but I do. They'll eviscerate you. Add that to the fact that it's not exactly common knowledge that you're gay, and it will be an unprecedented feeding frenzy.”

“Look,” Harry said, frowning. “If you don't want to go, that's fine. I just thought...”

“I do want to go.”

Harry stopped and looked at him, saw that Draco's cheeks were flushed. “I want to go, very much. I just don't want...” He stopped and looked down at the roses in his lap.

“You don't want... what?”

That pointed chin lifted again. “I don't want it to be uncomfortable for you. They won't be kind, Harry.”

Harry met the level gaze, tried to put what he was feeling into his own. “I don't care,” he said, his voice resolute. “And you're forgetting something here.”

“What's that?”

“I'm not a fifteen-year-old kid anymore. I'm Chief Auror. I have a certain amount of clout. And I'm not afraid to throw it around, if necessary. If they get too out of line, I control law enforcement. I'll have their arses thrown out.”

Draco stared at him, a slight smirk beginning to form. “Why Potter, how... totalitarian of you.”

Harry laughed. “I just... I haven't gone in years, because it's such a farce, you know? I went with Ginny once, just as friends, and it was okay. But this year...” He paused, squeezing Draco's hand. “This year, there is someone I want to kiss at midnight, someone I want to hold in my arms, someone I want to dance with. This year, New Year's Eve matters to me, and I want to spend it with you.” Draco was staring at him, his lips slightly parted as if he were suddenly short of breath. When he didn't speak, Harry rushed on. “I even had them send an invitation to your mother, and to Parkinson and her husband, so you wouldn't feel so completely outnumbered. I know what that crowd is like, Draco, and I'll understand if you don't want to deal with it. I just thought...”

Draco moved then, reaching over and placing his hand over Harry's mouth. “Stop,” he ordered, and Harry stopped, startled. 

“Potter, there's one thing that we clearly need to work on.” He laid the roses carefully aside before lifting one long, slender thigh and gracefully straddling Harry's lap. He sat on Harry's thighs, and reached up with his hands to frame Harry's face, holding it gently between his palms. “I'm going to tell you something about me, something very few people know. When you've rendered me speechless,” he slid forward along Harry's legs until their groins were pressed together, “it means you've won.”

Harry had time for just the briefest smile before his lips were otherwise engaged.


	30. Auld Lang Syne

“Draco, stop fussing with it.”  
  
Draco sighed explosively, letting his hands drop to his sides, eyeing his reflection skeptically in the full length mirror. “You're sure this is right?” he asked, fighting the urge to tug down on the black woolen jacket.  
  
“Yes, darling,” Pansy answered patiently. “Ryan is Muggle-born, remember? He's worn one every single New Year's Eve that we've been married.” She straightened the black silk bow tie, pulling the stiff white shirt points into perfect alignment, smoothing her pale hands over the black satin lapels and buttoning the double breasted jacket. She pulled at the white silk pocket square, artfully ruffling it with her fingers, then took a step back then, studying him carefully, dark eyes shining. “You look magnificent,” she said emphatically. “Absolutely magnificent.”  
  
He did look good, he thought after a moment. His hair was slicked back sleekly from his face, which drew his sharp cheekbones and pointed jaw into view. His brows were perfectly groomed, arched pale wings above light eyes, and his smooth skin was flawless. He turned to the side, still unsure about the short jacket. He was used to the floor length formal dress robes; this just seemed to be missing something to him.  
  
“You're sure about this coat?” he asked, frowning slightly. The shorter jacket made his already long legs look almost freakishly long, and he worried his lower lip with his teeth.  
  
“Darling, the coat is perfection, but if you're nervous about it, I'm certain Potter won't mind if you wear dress robes.”  
  
Draco straightened and shook his head. “No, he's wearing a tuxedo. He told me he was, so I'm wearing one, too. Being the man's date is one thing; being called his 'girlfriend' is quite another. If he's wearing trousers, so am I.”  
  
Pansy smiled. “With the added plus that it shows off those amazing legs, and just a nicely rounded hint of that arse he's so fond of.”  
  
The one and only detail that Draco had shared with Pansy about his and Potter's love life was that the man seemed to have a healthy fixation with his arse. He regretted that now as he felt his cheeks staining with hot color.  
  
“Good God,” Pansy teased. “Who'd have thought that the man could still blush at this late date?”  
  
“Oh, do shut up,” he shot back. “And you look brilliant as well, by the way.”  
  
She smiled at him, preening next to his reflection in the mirror. “I do, don't I?” She turned this way and that to eye the emerald green gown she wore, the satin shimmering in the lights and the jewels at her throat and ears shining. Her hair was piled high upon her head, a spill of artful curls over her nape, one soft ringlet resting on her pale shoulder.  
  
“You do,” he agreed. “And there's that attractive humility to add to the mix.” His lips quirked up at the corner.  
  
“Humility is reserved for those who are not stunning. For us, it's just silly.”  
  
Draco laughed, and curled his arm around her shoulders. “I do love you, you know,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  
  
“And I you, darling.” She placed her beautifully manicured hand on his chest, her eyes catching his. “And it was a lovely gesture for Potter to make sure that your mother and Ryan and I were invited to this event. I've been trying to finagle an invite for years without success.”  
  
“He thought I'd be more comfortable if you were there,” he said, his own eyes soft. Her expression mellowed and she reached up and touched his face.  
  
“He's quite won you over, hasn't he?”  
  
Draco paused, then nodded. “Utterly.”  
  
Her smile broke through like sun after clouds. “Brilliant.”  
  
They were interrupted by the sound of masculine voices coming from the outer room of Draco's flat, and he and Pansy exchanged a look.  
  
“I do believe that your date has arrived,” she said brightly, linking her arm through his. “Shall we?”  
Draco took a deep breath and nodded. She patted his arm with her other hand. “That's my boy.”  
  
When they entered the room, Potter and Ryan were standing near the fireplace, chatting amiably, and Draco had a chance to study the man before he turned and saw him. Immediately, he had a whole new appreciation for the tuxedo.  
  
Potter's was black, like his. The lapels were satin, like his. But that was where the similarities ended. Potter's wasn't double breasted, but the slightly boxier shape suited his more muscular frame. His jacket was open, and beneath it he wore a black satin vest. In place of the bow tie that Draco was wearing, Potter's was the less traditional full Windsor style, and yet with the cut of the coat and the vest, it was perfect. In fact, with his hair tamed into a semblance of order and his shave as close as a man with heavy black hair could make it, Potter looked down right edible.

 

He must have felt Draco staring at him, because he turned, and his eyes moved over Draco from head to toe with dawning appreciation.  
  
“You look great,” he said, coming to Draco, reaching out.  
  
“So do you,” Draco replied a bit breathlessly, letting Potter take his hands.  
  
“And I am utterly insulted,” Pansy sighed dramatically. “I'm the only beautiful woman in the room, and all you men do is ogle each other!”  
  
“I'll ogle you, wench,” Ryan said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “And stop fishing; you know you look good.”  
  
“You do,” Potter seconded. “Quite lovely.”  
  
“Too late, hero boy,” she said airily, picking her clutch up off of the sofa. “That ship has sailed.” She shot him a wry grin over her shoulder, and she and Ryan stepped into the floo after announcing 'The Ministry of Magic' quite firmly. They disappeared in a flash of green fire, and Potter's eyes came back to Draco's.  
  
“Are you ready for this?” he asked softly.  
  
Draco nodded. “You?”  
  
Potter seemed to think about if for a moment, then he nodded, his eyes bright. “Actually, I'm sort of looking forward to it,” he admitted. “It'll be the first time in a very long time that I do the absolute last thing anyone expects.”  
  
Draco smirked. “I believe that may be the understatement of the century.”  
  
Potter grinned, and took his hand.  
  
oooOOOooo  
  
Stepping out of the fireplace into the lobby of the Ministry was precisely the crush that Draco had expected it to be. The noise level was astounding; voices raised in greeting, laughter echoing off of the tile walls. They found Pansy and Ryan waiting for them, and Potter re-claimed Draco's hand.  
  
“My assistant should be waiting for us just... there she is.” Potter gestured further down, and Draco saw a short, rather severe looking woman with gun-metal grey curls and half-glasses chatting amiably with his mother. Narcissa Malfoy was every inche the grand lady, and looked stunning in a jewel encrusted gown of palest green, her hair artfully coiled, her head high. He could see people looking at her as they passed, some in a rather less than friendly manner, but she ignored them with elegant disdain, and he felt a surge of pride. He also felt the sudden weight of dozens of stares. People had seen him get out of the floo with Potter, and they'd seen that they were holding hands. And they were staring.  
  
Potter glanced at him quickly, and Draco managed a small smile, which Potter returned. Pansy came up on his other side and slipped her arm through his, whispering “steady as she goes, sailor,” under her breath, and Draco relaxed enough to laugh. They approached Potter's assistant and his mother, (and he'd have to remember to thank Potter later for making sure that she wasn't forced to stand there on her own), and returned her smile when she spotted him.  
  
“Darling!” she said, holding out her hands. He took them and pressed a kiss to her cheek.  
  
“You look absolutely gorgeous,” Draco said honestly, and she smiled at him fondly.  
  
“And so do you.” She turned then and offered Potter her hands, which he took, bending in to brush a kiss over her cheek as well.  
  
“Mrs. Malfoy,” he said politely.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” she said, leaning back, scolding faintly. “I hope you will feel comfortable enough to call me Narcissa.” She searched his face with a slight smile. “And I hope that I may call you Harry.”  
  
Potter smiled. “Please. And Leah,” he held out his hand, as his stern assistant turned, brows arching. “Allow me to introduce Draco Malfoy. Draco, Leandra Scott, my right arm.”  
  
She studied Draco for a moment, and he'd never felt quite as stripped bare as he did under that unblinking regard. Finally, she offered her hand.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy.” Her tone was prim. Draco shook her hand.  
  
“Draco, please,” he said earnestly. When Draco would have released her hand, she tightened her grip, and he continued to watch her warily. Finally, she leaned forward, beaconing him closer. He leaned in as well.  
  
“The gingerbread house was inspired,” she said softly. “Well done.”  
  
Draco felt his lips curve up at the corners. “Thank you.”  
  
“Just understand,” she went on, lowering her voice so much that he had to lean in even further. “If you hurt him in anyway, I'll have your bollocks as a souvenier. Are we clear?”  
  
Draco straightened, blinking, but he didn't look away from her face. This was a test; one he didn't want to fail.  
  
“If I should ever be so foolish,” he said sincerely, “I'll volunteer them.”  
  
They stared into one another's eyes for a long moment, and then, slowly, her thin lips began to quirk. “Well done, young Malfoy,” she said with a smirk. “I believe that you'll do.” Draco wasn't sure why he felt as he'd just won a medal.  
  
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Leah said to the small party. “The press corps is right on the other side of this entryway. I was able to post of few Aurors nearby, and we've got them in a roped off area, but I'm afraid thats the best I can do.” She eyed them all with something akin to pity. “Good luck!”  
  
And with that, she walked away, heading away from the Grand Ballroom.  
  
“What a singular woman,” Narcissa said as she watched her walk away.  
  
“You've no idea,” Harry agreed. “All right, then. Shall we?” He held out his hand to Draco, and the five of them entered the adjoining hallway.  
  
For just a moment, Draco thought that they might be able to pass with relatively little fuss. The explosion of sound that grew when the press realized that Potter was there put the lie to that theory quickly enough. Flash bulbs began to go off in blinding succession, and the noise level grew to a cacophony of sound. The people who had been the source of the presses interest before Potter had appeared were abruptly abandoned, including the Minister for Magic, as the group pressed against the ropes, camera's pointed, quills at the ready. Three burly Aurors, distinctive in the red robes, manned the ropes, and it was all they could do to keep the surging throng under control.  
  
“Harry.” The name bounced off of the walls, yelled in growing volume. “Over here. Over here, Harry.”  
  
For the first few moments, they really only seemed interested in Potter, and Draco, Pansy, Ryan and Narcissa hung back a bit. But then the fact that Potter was holding his hand registered, and Draco's skin began to crawl when he felt some of that attention begin to shift to him.  
  
He heard his name, muttered at first, then repeated with growing volume. Potter squeezed his hand, and shot him a bolstering look, but Draco's mouth had gone completely dry. This was so much more than he'd expected; the flashes were blinding, the force of all of that attention distinctly uncomfortable.  
  
“Is he your date, Harry?” someone finally shouted rudely. “Is Malfoy your date?”  
  
“So the rumors about you are true, eh Harry? You prefer men?”  
  
“How long have you known that you were gay? Did Ginny Weasley know?”  
  
“Are you two in a relationship? How does that work? The Savior and the Death Eater?”  
  
Draco stiffened, his back going rigid. He heard his mother gasp and felt Pansy's hand curl around his arm.  
  
Harry turned on the section where the last question had come from, glaring, and an expectant hush seemed to envelope the crowd of reporters. He scanned the faces, his eyes narrowed.  
  
“That,” he said firmly, “will be the last time that's said, understood? Draco Malfoy is not now, nor has he ever been, a Death Eater.”  
  
“And you know this, how?” Someone had the temerity to ask.  
  
“He has no mark,” Harry answered firmly.  
  
“And you know this, how?” Someone else called, to scattered laughter.  
  
“That's none of your business,” he responded, but his expression relaxed. “We'll pose for few pictures as long as you mind your manners.”  
  
He pulled Draco up to his side, his arm around his shoulders, and again the blinding barrage of flashes went off. Harry gestured Pansy and Ryan up to his side, and Narcissa to stand beside Draco, and the five of them posed for several photos before Harry held up his hands.  
  
“That's enough for now.” There was muttering and sounds of disappointment even as Harry searched the group of reporters. Finally, he found what he was looking for. “Luna.” Draco looked up, trying to see through the colored dots left over from the flashes from the camera's, and saw a lovely blonde woman push her way to the barricade, wearing and extraordinarily ugly plaid robe with a knot of some kind of hemp on her head.  
  
“Hello, Harry,” she said when she was before him, and Draco thought he recognized her from school.  
  
“Hello, Luna,” he said with a smile. “Give me a call this week. I'll give you an exclusive interview, answer any question you've got, all right?”  
  
Her smile was misty even as sounds of disappointment surrounded her. “That would be lovely. I'll bring dandelion tea.”  
  
“Perfect.” Potter pressed a kiss to her cheek, then reached for Draco's hand. He took it and even more flashes went off as Potter pulled him through the gathered crowd into the ballroom beyond. They were just through the doors when Potter ushered him over to a wall and looked into his eyes.  
  
“Are you all right?” he asked.  
  
Draco thought about it for a moment, and realized that he was, actually. He was fine. Irritated, suffering temporary blindness due to flashbulbs, but on the whole? He was fine.  
  
“Yes,” he said firmly, squeezing Potter's hand. “They're obnoxious and rude, and you handled them beautifully. I'm fine.”  
  
“They didn't scare you off?” Potter asked casually, but as Draco studied his eyes, he could see that while the question had been asked lightly, the answer wouldn't be taken that way.  
  
“It would take more than that, Potter,” he said with a wry grin. “I believe we've already discussed my need to be the center of attention...”  
  
Potter smiled. “Care for a drink?” He asked, pulling him away from the wall.  
  
“Care for a dozen?” Draco answered, and he heard Potter laugh.  
  
oooOOOooo  
  
All in all, it was a dreamlike sort of evening. The crowd stared at them; a lot. Draco had never felt so completely and utterly exposed. And some of them obviously were not happy with the fact that their hero had aligned himself with someone they felt was so clearly unsuitable, at least in their estimation. For some, Draco supposed it was the fact that he was a man. The older members of the crowd seemed quite taken aback by that. But for others, it was clearly his name, and his father's reputation, that was the problem. He'd have been ready to throw in the towel for Potter's sake at any point. But then, he hadn't really counted on Potter's reaction to the same things that he was seeing.  
  
Where he might have withdrawn to fight another day, Potter, ever the Gryffindor, went dead ahead. If Draco was standing next to him, Potter was touching him; either holding his hand, or with his palm spread in the middle of his back, but his hands were on him, and the message could not have been more clear; 'this is my choice, like it or not'.  
  
Draco saw some of their old school mates eying them incredulously. Neville Longbottom and his wife Hannah were two of only a handful that actually stopped to say hello. Theo Nott sneered at him from across the room, Blaise Zabini and wife number three turned up their noses, Justin Finch-Fletchley and his wife stared in open contempt. Potter ignored them all. The only moment where Draco felt any tension in his body was when he spotted Ginny Weasley across the room.  
  
She was standing just inside of the door, her arm through that of a tall, thin fellow with dark hair that Draco seemed to remember being named Conner or Cooper... something with a 'c'. She was staring straight at them, and Draco looked into Potter's face to find him staring back, his face expressionless. Weasley looked at him, and then at Potter and back again, and for a moment Draco was very much afraid the chit was going to cry. But then, she did the very last thing that Draco expected her to do; she began to laugh.  
  
Not loudly, and by no means uproariously, but almost incredulously, looking at the two of them and shaking her head in obvious amusement. When Draco looked back at Potter, his eyes had warmed, and the corner of his mouth was lifting, as if something terribly funny had happened and yet he and the girl were the only ones who could see it. When they came by a few minutes later, the couple stopped and said hello, and Draco found the Weaslette's brown eyes studying him as her date shook Potter's hand rather more enthusiastically than the situation seemed to warrant.  
  
“So, it's you, is it?”  
  
Draco turned and found the girl standing next to him, speaking to him in a low voice.  
  
“It's me... what?”  
  
She smirked, and it was a fine smirk indeed; Draco found himself wondering if she'd been sorted into the right house.  
  
“Who put that smile on his face on Christmas Day.”  
  
Draco remembered the conversation he and Potter had had in the bath, and he looked down at her, brow raised superciliously. “I believe you've already been told that's none of your business.”  
  
“Oh ho,” she laughed. “Told you that, did he?” Draco felt his cheeks flush, and she grinned cheekily. “All I wanted to say was,” she paused, crossing her arms over her chest, and Draco braced himself for the assault. “Whatever it is that you're doing, I hope you'll keep doing it.” Draco stared at her, stunned. “He's happier than he's been in a really long time. And if you can do that for him, then so be it.” She smiled at his shocked expression, and turned to her date. “Come on, Corner,” she announced, grabbing his arm. “Let's get pissed.” She shot them another grin and walked away.  
  
“Charming girl,” Draco said, still astonished.  
  
“That's my sis, all right.”  
  
Both men turned to find Ronald Weasley standing just behind Harry. “Never has been terribly girlie; probably comes from having five brothers. I don't imagine we were terribly good role models.”  
  
“You weren't,” Harry agreed, offering his oldest friend his hand. Weasley shook it, then patted Harry on the shoulder.  
  
“Thought I might come over here and give you fair warning, mate,” Weasley said as he took a drink from a bottle he held in his hand. “Hurricane Hermione is about to blow your way, and she isn't happy.” Potter grimaced.  
  
“I probably should have just told her,” he said, shaking his head.  
  
“Oh, don't worry,” Weasley assured him. “She won't create a scene, not here any way. She works at the Ministry. I'd avoid the house for a while if I were you though. And, there she is.” He set his bottle on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed Draco's sleeve. “Come on, Malfoy. Let me buy you a drink and get you out of the line of fire.”  
  
Draco started to argue, but Potter squeezed his hand. “He's right; go on. I'll be along in a minute.”  
  
“I'm not afraid of her,” Draco said, seeing that Mrs. Granger-Weasley was, in fact, bearing down on them like a steam engine, her jaw squared and her face determined.  
  
“Then you're either braver, or dumber than I gave you credit for,” Weasley said brightly. “Come on, Malfoy. Harry can handle her better than just about anyone.”  
  
“It's all right,” Potter assured him. “I won't be long.”  
  
Against his better judgment, Draco allowed himself to be pulled over to the bar, but he made sure he was sitting where he could see Potter. He saw when Granger reached him, saw their head together, saw the careful way that they both seemed to be holding themselves. When it didn't seem as if wands were going to be drawn, he ordered a glass of champagne.  
  
“Oh, no,” Weasley said magnanimously when the drinks were delivered, setting a pile of galleons on the servers tray, “this one is on me. I owe you, after all.”  
  
Draco frowned. “You owe me? For what?”  
  
“For helping save my marriage,” Weasley said, saluting him with a glass of firewhiskey. Draco stared, then the light dawned.  
  
“Ahhh, the ring.” Weasley nodded, and Draco smirked. “Got you laid, did it?”  
  
“Enthusiastically, and repeatedly.” He clinked his glass into Draco's and took a drink. Draco glanced over at the woman still speaking to Harry, and shuddered theatrically.  
  
“Whatever floats your boat.”  
  
Weasley laughed. “God, you're such a bloody poof, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco arched a brow ironically. “Why, yes, Weasley, as I happen to be the man doing your best friend.” It was Ron's turn to shudder, and Draco laughed. “God, you're so straight,” he quipped, and Weasley winked at him.  
  
“And proud of it.”  
  
“Right back at you.”  
  
They grinned at one another and ordered another round.  
  
Draco watched the conversation between Potter and Granger carefully. There were no outward signs of anger, but he could tell from the stiff shoulders and tight expressions that it wasn't going terribly well. And then, apparently the woman said something that was a step too far, because he saw Potter draw himself up, say something that appeared very final, and walk away. Granger watched him, then turned and with what Draco thought was a lot of personal dignity under the circumstances, left the room.  
  
“Whoops, there's my cue,” Weasley said, draining his glass. “I need to go make sure she's all right. Later, Ferret Face.” This was said with a good natured wink as he put more money on the table.  
  
“See you around, Weaslebee,” he shot back, and Weasley laughed and walked away. He stopped just long enough to murmur something to Potter and pat his shoulder, then went out the door his wife had disappeared through.  
  
Potter came to the table, and although outwardly he appeared fine, Draco now knew him well enough to know that he wasn't. When he held out his hand and murmured, “Dance with me,” Draco took it unhesitatingly.  
  
There were a few looks sent their way as they made it to the middle of the dance floor and stepped into one another's arms, but if Potter could ignore them, Draco figured he could as well. He slipped his arms around Potter's neck and allowed himself to be pulled into a strong body, and registered the tension against his frame.  
  
“Are you all right?” he asked, turning his face so that his mouth was next to Potter's ear. He nodded stiffly. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
He felt more than heard Potter's sigh. “She means well,” he said finally. “She really does. And she was an enormous amount of help to me once, when I'd been in a disasterous relationship. She really did save me from myself. But that doesn't mean...” he shook his head, his voice trailing off.  
  
“That she knows what's best for you now?”  
  
Potter leaned back and looked into his face. “Spoken like a man that's been there.”  
  
Draco arched one brow. “Potter, I believe you've met my mother and my dearest friend?”  
  
He felt some of the tension leave the hard body as Potter laughed. “Point.” He sighed heavily. “I think I hurt her feelings.”  
  
Draco studied his face. “I doubt,” he said with understanding, “that it's irrevocable. There's too much history between you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Potter agreed. “She is my dearest friend, next to Ron.”  
  
“And,” Draco said, lifting his hand to touch Potter's jaw fleetingly. “Part of this is up to me, too, you know.” Potter frowned slightly. “It's up to me to prove whatever she said to you wrong. And I intend to.”  
  
Potter smiled at him then, and pulled him closer, resting their foreheads together. “She'll come around,” he sighed, closing his eyes.  
  
“She will.”  
  
Up on the stand near the orchestra, the music stopped and a man cast a  _sonorous_  charm, holding his wand to his throat.. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We're just seconds to midnight. Please help me count it down! Ten, nine, eight...”  
  
Potter brought his head back around, his hand tightening on Draco's back. “Happy New Year, Draco,” he said over the sound of the crowd, his eyes close and intense. Draco felt his heart swell.  
  
“Happy New Year.... Harry,” he murmured just as a great cheer went up and horns went off around them, but Potter read the words on his lips, and a slow smile slid across his mouth. He leaned in then, unmindful of the crowd around them, apparently uncaring whether anyone watched them or not, and kissed Draco with a slow, sweet passion that made the room and the noise and the crowd simply disappear. Draco sank his hands into the thickness of Harry's hair, for he was Harry now and probably always would be, at least in his heart, and kissed him back, hoping that he could tell him without words what this meant to him; to be held and kissed for all the world to see. To be validated as someone worthy of the love of a great man, by the man himself.  
  
When Harry drew back, the strains of Auld Lang Syne were filling the room, and he pulled Draco back into his body and began to turn him slowly in the middle of the vast dance floor. Confetti rained down from the ceiling and balloons fell around them, and people sang the slightly melancholy words of the old song in voices out of tune, and yet to Draco, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. Right up until Harry murmured against his ear, “let's get out of here.”  
  
He nodded, and Harry stepped into another turn, pulled him close, and took them home.


End file.
